One month off
by anakha13
Summary: My take on what happened in Kirill's 'one month off'. Kirill takes a trip to Paris and meets a girl he doesn't forget. What he doesn't count on is to get embroiled further into Gretkov's mess, and that Jason Bourne is still alive... Kirill is charming. Eventual smut ensues. Please read and review :)
1. The plane

She slumped her head back on the tiny cloth of the seat cover and gave out another sigh of relief. She'd made it. Early flights- they were seriously a gamble. She'd woken late, as anticipated. Having no time to shower, she'd stumbled blindly out of bed, spraying a long wave of some men's perfume across her torso, letting the heady scent fill her nostrils. Men's perfume always smelled better. Her suitcase ready packed, she had little to do except wriggle into clothes she'd prepared the night before and hail the first cab she could find. Luckily here, driving included innate insensibility to road rules in order to reach the prescribed destination as quickly as possible. The cabbie had swerved around enough side streets to make her glad she hadn't had time to down any breakfast.

Mornings were evil. She'd tried the special alarms, the ones that were supposed to wake a person up at the 'optimum time' in their sleep cycle. It was an utter lie- there was never an optimum time to wake up before 8am. Her eyes would still be groggy with hideous crusts, and she would still feel like a zombie. 'Just take coffee,' her morning friends said very simply. She'd tried it, for a little bit, with little patience, hoping it would work miracles and turn her into a chirruping squirrel before midday. It didn't. She just wasn't a morning person.

A guy sat next to her aisle seat. He was slim- the first thing her sleepy eyes had observed before she had headed into a brilliant doze. There was an empty seat next to the window, and she wondered why he didn't just sit there, but she didn't complain. She was too tired. He smelled nice, and he was slim.

They were mid-flight now. Her fellow passenger hadn't spoken a word, hadn't uttered a sound or moved an inch except to stoically order more of whatever he was chugging down. That was the fourth glass he had on his turntable, and he hadn't needed to get over her to go to the loo or anything. She usually made small talk with whoever sat next to her, but he didn't look like the kind of man who wanted to be disturbed, so she gave him what he wished and left him alone.

She put her hand on the armrest and felt the warmth of human skin instead of the coolness of metal. She pulled her hand away, uttering a polite whisper while gracing the tiniest glance towards him. "Sorry."

He barely acknowledged her, but she supposed he had heard her. She rested her left arm on her left thigh, cringing at how scrunched up she was. It was a short flight though, so she reasoned she could bear the discomfort. She shuffled forward in her seat, pulling the flimsy headphones from the front jacket pocket and tearing off the plastic. She plugged the end cord into the armrest of his seat carefully, and was about to jam the headset over her ears when she heard him speak.

"Travelling alone?"

His voice was low and heavily accented. Pretty hot, actually.

" _Da_ ," she said huskily, and turned an enquiring eye upon him.

"You?"

He raised a perfect brow.

" _Da."_

"Business or pleasure?"

His mouth twitched into a small smirk. "Pleasure," he said slowly.

Some seconds later he spoke again.

"You?"

She smiled. "Pleasure, I suppose." _I mean they were bound for Paris._

There was a silence.

"You are Russian?" she said, though she already knew the answer.

There was no reply, just a slight nod, a lazy movement of the chin downwards.

She waited for another word, another question. There was none, and she supposed that he had exhausted his supply of chattiness for the day and the conversation had truly ended. She was about to put the headphones on again when an amused voice filled her ear.

"Your accent. It is difficult to place."

She craned her neck towards him again, smiling wryly.

"Guess," she said.

He blinked, cool, intelligent eyes. They were a deep hazel, and seemed to assess as he stared.

"You are not American. You are not…quite British."

She nodded. "Correct."

His eyes. They seemed to look deeply into her, pick her apart. She felt a thrill, a shiver run through her.

"Australia."

He said the word tentatively, the word rolling strangely off his tongue. It was one of the few times he had expressed uncertainty before anyone, but her eager nods made him feel like a fucking god.

"You are good. Not many people can guess."

"It is a hard accent to place." He repeated his previous line mechanically.

"Ever been there?"

" _Niet."_

There was another pause, and he looked at the screen in front as she waited expectantly, wondering when he would speak next.

"I have heard it is beautiful."

She smiled, really smiled. "It is."

"Like you?"

His eyes looked towards her then, watching, his interest plain. Her eyes widened just a little, and a slight blush crept over the white skin. Then she half snorted, delicately. It was her turn to be silent.

The hazel eyes swept another glance over her, but there wasn't much they hadn't gleaned already. He had already memorised the fairness of her face.

He had seen her at the ticket counter. Cool, elegant. The polished, direct voice. Long hair, the colour of night. Wide eyes, wide lips. It was enough for him to admire her by. And then she smiled. He could not take his eyes from her at that point.

It was not a full flight. It did not take much to get the nervous, young attendant to seat him next to the girl. He had read the seat number when she had left the counter, her small, delicate fingers grasping the boarding pass lightly.

He was not in the habit of following beautiful women, but then again he had little opportunity to do so. But this was too good to pass up. Women were his weak spot. He had a month holiday, and would follow his own fucking whims for a change before being clipped back onto Gretkov's leash.

"You can have the armrest."

He shrugged his arm off without even seeming to move, and rearranged his limbs comfortably, noiselessly.

She looked at him, really looked. Her brain had woken up enough by this point. What she saw both scared and thrilled her. He was handsome as sin. His brown, nearly black hair was cut short, close to his head. He had a stubble, a few days' old, she guessed. She had a weakness for stubbles, and this one was a good one. Wide shoulders stretched across the width of the small economy seat, filling out the black coat he wore over a dark pullover. Stretched corduroy dressed lean, muscular legs. She felt her body react, pulling itself towards him, and mentally slapped herself. Tall, dark handsome men were trouble. She'd been with a few, and they were sweet poison, poison she had willingly succumbed to until her body had burned, and her soul along with it. Still, she wondered, he was _beautiful._ She felt her lips softening, imagining the bruise of his kiss, the taste of him…

He was looking at her expectantly, and she was just blinking. Then he was smirking, like he'd guessed what she was thinking. She wiped the lust filled glaze off her fact and rested her arm atop the now empty rest. The seats were so close together she was touching his arm now, just barely, but the contact made her blood ignite. She breathed in, then exhaled slowly and gave him one of her own deadly smiles.

"Michelle," she said as an introduction, her left hand poking out.

He smiled and looked at her hungrily. The name…it suited her. He could imagine saying it when he was fucking her under the sheets…his breath slowed somewhat, and he knew his pupils were dilated. Along with other parts of his body. He was reacting merely to a daydream- something that had never happened before. He surmised logically that that meant it was going to be unbelievably good when it finally happened. His lower parts throbbed again.

"Are you alright?"

He cursed at himself inwardly, and smoothly took the hand she offered (it was still poking out) and lifted it to his lips. His mouth lingered on the skin of a round knuckle, and he could hear her breath hitch.

"More than alright."

He traced the knuckle alternatively between his bottom and top lip gently, his eyes never leaving her's. Then he put the arm back down on the armrest, gently. She was looking at him unabashedly now, not caring whether she was staring.

"Kirill," he said.

She blinked once or twice, and that wide smile came over her face again.

"Like the conductor." Her voice was excited.

Kirill looked at her with a bemused, slightly puzzled expression, but she continued without prompting.

"Kirill Kondrashin. He was a famous Russian composer. But I suppose," she continued with reasonableness, "not so famous for very many. I admire his work, however."

"He is a- conductor."

"Yes," she supplied when she heard the uncertainty in his voice. The second time in this conversation. He must be running a record; then again he didn't really talk to beautiful educated women. The sort he consorted with were always far less…put together. He listened to her speak. "The person who leads an orchestra. Some may not think they do much except wave their hands, but those waves make the difference between good and great music."

"You are a musician?"

Michelle nodded. "Yes."

"Classical?"

" _Da_."

He nodded again. He had thought so- it fit her, like the name.

"The Russians have always been my favourite composers," she said. "Their music has soul, and strength. Rachmaninov, Scriabin, Stravinsky. Deep passions under a stern exterior. My teacher was Russian. She was strong- a real bitch sometimes, even- but she made me good, real good."

"What do you play?"

"I'm a pianist."

"I see." He slowly lifted her hand off the seat, taking his time to lightly stroke then circle a finger. "Pianist fingers."

She blushed, but did not take her hand away. He did, however, to lift the half-filled glass on the turntable to his lips, downing the liquid in one gulp.

She was still staring at him as he turned to face her once more.

"And what do you do?"

He had expected this question. "I'm a police officer."

She didn't answer, but her gaze was sceptical.

"Really?"

He half smiled lazily. "Is it so hard to believe?"

"Well-no," she said. "You're built for it. But you- don't dress like one, and you don't act like one."

He lifted a brow. "You would rather I get into uniform? I am on vacation."

She let out a huff of amusement. "That's not what I meant. But no matter."

He knew she wanted to say more, but she was holding back for fear of being impolite. She was keen, this one. He'd have to watch what he said very carefully.

"I think I'd like seeing you in uniform though."

She spoke again, this time her manner teasing. She had regrouped, he figured, dropping her curiosity and making it a mission to flirt in earnest. He was not going to discourage her.

"I think I could possibly arrange that." His voice purred low, his lips stretching into a cat like grin.

"With the hat?" she asked with a grin of her own. "Or perhaps not. Those furry things are awful."

"They are. Perhaps I could do without."

"And the jacket…it looks…constricting. And so full of duck feathers."

"I could take it off."

They were leaning in to each other now, a hair's breadth away from each other. She licked her lips. He looked at them hungrily. He was just about to swoop in, propriety and location be damned, when there was a jolt on the plane. They pulled apart, and then heard the captain speak in Russian over the intercom as the craft made another thunderous lurch downwards.

Michelle looked a little worried. "Just turbulence," Kirill said softly. "He reminds everyone to wear the seat belt."

"Thanks," she said. "My Russian sucks. _Ya yo-ha ga va roo pa Ruski_."

The plane started to see saw again.

"Oh my god," she whimpered. "Shit." She clasped her hands together against her chest, curling into a ball.

"It'll be alright," Kirill said reassuringly.

She turned her head slightly and gave him an almost cross glance.

"It's just turbulence," he said lamely.

"You're a real comfort," she said.

"It is."

"I do not have any wish to go down with a plane."

"That does not happen very often."

She glared. " _Aeroflot_ has the worst reputation for crashes."

He looked at her levelly. "Then you should not have picked it to fly with."

"Yes, well it was either that or Air France, which is equally bad."

The plane gave another lurch.

"Oh god, oh god!"

"I would not be too concerned," the Russian said in a cool voice. "Despite their bad record with crashes, fatalities have not been so frequent. The last time someone died was in-"

"Not helping, not helping…"

She was hugging herself now, and her breathing had become ragged. The plane was still continuing its acrobatics, and the captain spoke again over the intercom. She lifted her head in a panic.

"What did he say?"

Kirill sighed. "He reminds everyone to wear the seat belt."

"What good is a fucking seatbelt if this thing plummets head first into the ground?"

"Michelle." He pulled her chin towards him, his hazel eyes staring deeply into her own. He spoke slowly, but commandingly. "The plane is not going down. Now breathe. _In, out. In, out._ "

She was so mesmerized by those eyes she forgot that she might be facing imminent death. Or maybe it was okay, if those eyes never left her's. She did as she was told, and inhaled slowly, and then exhaled, his eyes locked steadily onto her own, his Russian lilt repeating the instructions over and over. By the time he stopped, the plane had returned to cruising in a straight line, and she felt surprisingly relaxed. She frowned a little, and then shook herself.

"I- I'm sorry," she said croakily, unfolding and leaning back into her seat. His hand was still on her chin. "I'm usually not like that."

He stroked her cheek before dropping it into his own lap and sighed. "I suspect you had a panic attack."

"I don't like flying."

"I guessed as much."

"I usually take my pills, but I thought it was a short flight, I didn't need them…"

Her voice trailed off. She was still clenching her fists.

"What is so frightening? Dying?"

She faced him, and gave a little nod. "That, and other things."

"If your time is up, your time is up," he said in a matter-of-fact way.

She let out a sigh. "That's what my mother would say."

"She's right."

She looked at him irritably. "Comforting, aren't you?"

"Comfort is of little practical use in a life threatening situation."

She raised her own brow. "Oh. What would you prescribe for me then?"

He grinned. "I can think of a few things."

She looked at him drily. "Terrible."

They lapsed into silence. Michelle took the time to get her own beverage from the cross-looking flight attendant with too much make up on her face. The woman glared at her as she tossed the water bottle into her lap. _Funny_ , she thought sardonically as she twisted the cap off, she didn't seem to have any problem getting _Kirill_ all those drinks.

She lifted the bottle to her lips, but just before she drank she could feel he was watching her, his hazel eyes boring a hole into her cheek. Or maybe her nose.

"Are you staying in Paris long?" she said once she'd finished her sip.

He blinked and looked ahead. "I'm not sure. At least two weeks."

She didn't dare ask him more. She wanted to, to make a proposition- but she knew that would be best left to him, and if he really wanted to she knew he would.

She fingered the edge of the bottle. The water had tasted mildly foul, but she'd expected that. Water seemed to taste foul everywhere overseas.

"And you? What are your- plans?"

She snapped her head up, trying not to look like an eager bunny. "I'll be in Paris for ten days. Then I'm heading home. I've got to go back to work."

His eyes were unreadable. She was sure she must have a red sign above her head saying to ask her out somewhere, but perhaps he hadn't seen it.

"We should spend some time together."

 _Ah hah_. Perhaps he had seen it.

She smiled her wide smile. "I thought you'd never ask, officer."


	2. Dinner at the Eiffel Tower

Pont Des Arts.

Kirill didn't know what he was doing here.

It was a place for lovers, and Kirill did not do lover. He didn't date. Assassins didn't date. They didn't do wine and dinner and flowers. And yet he was here, in Paris, walking down Pont Des Arts, holding hands with a woman he still hadn't kissed or slept with, after having a meal at the most romantic place on earth- the fucking Eiffel Tower. Gretkov would laugh himself sick.

They sat down for a short while to rest Michelle's aching feet. He saw another eagerly grinning couple taking a crooked trajectory to the side of the bridge, their arms entwined like vines while the guy fastened a lock in a tiny space in the already overcrowded railing. They walked off in the same aimless fashion, giggling and French kissing like teenagers.

 _Well, at least somebody is getting some,_ he thought. _Though you can forget about me doing the padlock thing._

"You look moody."

Kirill's eyes darted across to see Michelle looking at him bemusedly.

She seemed to observe him so carefully. He did not think he gave anything away. He was trained not to. But the façade could only hold for so long. There were times his feelings overwhelmed him. And then there were the headaches…such bad headaches. There were days he would be sitting by the bed, head in his hands, rocking to and fro, the pain unbearable. Moments he would remember a kill, a gunshot, and he would awake on the floor, sweaty and shivering, not knowing what time of day it was and how he got there.

Kirill looked lost, almost haunted. Michelle could see secrets burdened him. She half wondered what they were, but then thought it was best not to wonder.

They had arrived in Paris in one piece, though the plane had circled around the airport undecidedly more than thrice before diving in for landing. She had panicked again, asking Kirill to translate what the captain had been saying. Unbeknownst to her, he had not been exactly truthful, but he had thought it best not to be. She would have been slightly more agitated had she found out the rudder was playing up and the pilots were trying to find a good way to manoeuvre the plane to reach ground safely.

The landing was undoubtedly the bumpiest she had ever experienced. She had clutched onto Kirill's hand the whole time, her tiny grip vice like. He didn't want to tell her, but it was almost painful. He had to repeat to her to let go of him when the craft had come to a complete stop.

They had gotten a cab together to their respective hotels. Fortunately, and to her great surprise, Kirill spoke fluent, accent-less French. She'd hoped he hadn't caught her ogling him shamelessly as the rapid-fire words fell off his tongue, but then again he was probably too preoccupied with speaking to the driver, a rude, disgruntled man who kept jabbering away in his native dialect with a cigar rolling around in his mouth. The suitcases! Oh they were too large. They were too heavy! Did he really expect them to carry that tonne of weight from the platform? He was just about to go on break and pick his kids up early from school before the ex-wife got to them, and there they were, just _expecting_ them to taxi them to the city. Tourists! Pah!

After much flustering and blustering, they were squashed together in the back, a suitcase jammed onto the seat next to them. The front passenger seat was already taken- by a hideous mountain of paperwork that the cabbie either did not notice or bother to clear for them.

His demeanour worsened when Michelle timidly asked Kirill to tell him to ditch the cigar before they left, as she hated tobacco, and the driver had glared at her in utter disdain before flinging the offending object out the window.

"T'es content?!" he boomed while gesturing forcefully out the window. "T'es content, petit dame? Pah!"

He didn't speak much on the way to the city, except to burst out in a violent torrent of cursing against the upending traffic. Michelle was annoyed, but her mind was focussed on other things, like Kirill's thigh banged up against her own. It was making her think very naughty thoughts, though she was too tired by now to act on them. It didn't help that he was circling her kneecap with a smooth long finger either, while absentmindedly staring out the window as if oblivious to the fact he was making her flushed and sweaty.

They were staying in near vicinity to one another. She had chosen an apartment hotel on the Seine, while Kirill had opted for the Westin, where Gretkov usually stayed. It was no use staying in a dingy motel when he didn't have to creep around the streets at night with his gear, lurking in the shadows waiting to shoot.

It was mid afternoon when they finally reached Paris. Michelle looked dead, and expressed a wish to crash. She had tried to give him money for her share of the ride, but Kirill had refused it. He'd taken her luggage into the lobby, ignoring the yelled obscenities the cabbie had cried as he did so. She'd been grateful for the help. They'd agreed to meet for dinner before she sleepily checked in.

Kirill did not go straight to his hotel. The driver was still grumbling under his breath, but a big fat bill helped shut him up. They drove around the city, up the Seine, past the Louvre, the Palais Bourbon. He was about to take out a cigarette from his coat and light up, when he stopped himself, remembering what Michelle had said about tobacco.

"Elle a fait vous quittez uh?" the cab driver said, watching him closely from the mirror.

Kirill made a non-committal nod.

"Ah, femmes, femmes," the driver continued passionately. "Ne peut pas vivre avec ou sans eux….. _femmes, femmes_ …bah!"

Kirill did not hear the rest. They were just passing the Tour de Eiffel. That was when he got the mad idea.

He ordered the cabbie to stop. Too astonished to admonish him, the cabbie did as he was told.

"Attendez ici," he said curtly as he shoved a hundred franc note in the driver's hand.

The cabbie opened his hand, his greedy eyes glued to the bill. "Oui, oui monsieur, j'attendrai, j'attendrai…."

He fingered the bill carefully, greedily, as he switched the engine off and flicked on the hazard lights.

Kirill knew it would be near impossible to get a booking, but the clerk had been gay and stumbling all over him as soon as he had seen him. All he had to do was give some smouldering looks, another hundred franc bill, and the poor guy was ready to eat out of his hand. _A reservation for tonight? Well of course it would be difficult, not impossible of course, of course, but difficult…but of course monsieur was too kind…the tip was appreciated…there happened to have been an unfortunate cancellation just an hour ago…of course he'd be happy to reserve this for monsieur, anything for monsieur…no trouble, no trouble at all…_

He finally made his way to the Westin, satisfied, with an almost polite cab driver who had remained eerily silent the entire drive. He even offered to take in his baggage, waving away the motions of the attentive concierge. Kirill had checked in, taken a short nap, showered, dressed, and was out the door again in a few hours.

He was in the Citadines lobby by six. She was already sitting there, reading a French paper. Her eyes shone and she waved enthusiastically when she saw him.

"Hi!" she said brightly.

Kirill couldn't answer. A lump had formed in his throat as soon as he'd spotted her. It was that _dress._ It was red, reached mid thigh and fit her like a glove, dipping low and cupping her gorgeous breasts. His imagination was in overload. _Bed,_ he thought. _Red sheets…_

"Kirill? Is something wrong?" she said worriedly, but then grinned as he tried to speak but couldn't. "Ahh, it's my dress, isn't it?"

She was smiling from ear to ear now.

"You look…amazing," he said rather lamely.

She blushed. "Thanks. You look pretty- handsome yourself."

She looked down at the ground and stared at her shoes. "I'd hoped you'd like it."

Something tugged inside him. Nobody had worn something to try to please him before.

"It's not too short, is it?" she said anxiously, pulling down the smooth material.

"No," he responded immediately.

"There's probably a never 'too short' with men, though," she muttered drily.

"Not true," Kirill said, his eyes looking intensely into her's. The dress was alluring and certainly sexy, but not indecent.

"So, where should we go for dinner?" she asked abruptly. "I'm starving. I didn't eat anything this afternoon except that crusty baguette at the airport."

Kirill's lips stretched into a ghost of a smile. "I- made reservations."

Her eyes flew wide open. "Where?"

"It's a surprise."

She whistled. "You know how to charm a girl, Kirill."

He held out an elbow for her, and she slipped a hand through it, breathing in his spicy cologne, as they walked through the door.

Michelle was pretty floored when she found out just where they would be dining. She'd actually squealed. Twice. And she'd _clapped her hands_. She reminded herself of one of the three-year-old students she taught, at the moment when he'd finally found middle C without innumerable hinting. He'd danced around the room, all crazy arms and legs waving about and banging his hands together in utter delight. She was pretty sure she looked just as ridiculous at that very moment.

Kirill could not comprehend himself. _I must be mad_ ; he thought when they finally arrived, the suave music playing in the background, the candles on the table. He began reasoning that they would have to have dinner together before getting to bed together, and thus the reservation was only a logical step towards intended goal. Of course, going for the Eiffel Tower…it was flamboyant, certainly, but effective. _Get real, Kirill,_ a dry honest voice in his head had said. _You just chatted up a gay guy to impress a girl you just met less than 12 hours ago_. He cleared his throat and told the dry voice to shut up, but it nudged at him constantly during the whole meal.

The evening was glamorous, the food adequate and overpriced, but the mood was there, under the soft light, their table giving a superb view of the city. They talked little, but exchanged glances often. Michelle thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience, though she could not help notice that the guy at the front desk kept looking at her, his face semi permanently curled into a giant scowl.

She leaned over the table and whispered.

"Kirill, that waiter."

Kirill's eyes were glued to the deep V that had formed at her chest when she'd moved forward. _Up!_ He told his eyes. He forced his chin upwards, willing unfocused eyes towards her's.

"He's been giving me the dirtiest glares all dinner."

Kirill picked at the olives that still lay on his plate. "He was very friendly when I asked to make a reservation. It is not my fault he supposed I had other intentions."

Michelle giggled. "Did you seduce him, Kirill?"

Kirill gave a little grin. "I was merely- persuasive."

"I suppose he should have guessed anyway, as you were after a _table for two_ ," she said teasingly.

"He should have."

"Well, well done to you," Michelle said breezily, lifting her wine glass. "Here's to tonight."

Kirill clinked it stoically and drank, his eyes not leaving her's.

Michelle smiled, and then gave a little sigh. "He's doing it again. What a sour face!"

"We'll salute him too then." Kirill tipped his glass good-humouredly towards the direction of the clerk while Michelle laughed. "Salute, my friend." Kirill drank nonchalantly, emptying the contents.

Michelle stifled another giggle. "He's vanished behind his little desk. The maître d' is looking at him now, talking to him. He doesn't look happy."

"Serve him right. He shouldn't be flirting with his customers."

Michelle shook her head. "You are cruel, Kirill."

He rested a hand atop the small, circular table. "I can be."

"And will you be cruel to me?"

He looked at her amusedly. "For you…punishment could be pleasure."

Michelle flushed. "That was a good line."

He was enjoying looking at her, her face alight with happiness. Her hair fell in thick waves, tumbling down her shoulders and back, her skin glowing under the light of the soft lamps. He suddenly felt ravenous, and it wasn't for the chocolate mousse on the menu.

He dabbed his chin with his napkin. "How about we skip dessert?"

Her eyes were glittering, feverish. She nodded.

It was a nightmare finding a cab, so they walked, with Michelle leaning on Kirill's arm to support her rickety heels. They walked down the Seine, and ended up resting at a bench on the Pont Des Arts. Michelle's ankles were killing her, and she rubbed them tiredly as they sat overlooking the water, wondering just how stupid it was to wear the heels in the first place. Kirill was scowling, glancing at some crazy kids running around, their lips glued to one another. The sun was just beginning to set.

His arm was stretched out on the bench, though he wasn't touching her. He moved his hand to stroke the nape of her neck. When it was the right moment, he turned her to face him. His eyes were dark, and something lay behind them.

She was trembling. His gaze sparked something inside herself. She felt drawn like a moth to a flame. Then he went in for the kill.

Their mouths met hungrily, passionately. His arms went to press the small of her back, bringing her flush against him. She made a small contented sound, and it drove him mad. She tasted good, so good, as he palmed the back of her dress, feeling the curve just above her rear, all the while imagining that delicious body finally under him, naked…

Wrapped up in his lascivious thoughts, it was only some minutes later that he became aware she wasn't responding anymore and his tongue was lapping saltwater.

He pulled away quickly, and when he did his eyes widened in shock.

She was crying.

Tears were streaming silently down the corners of her eyes. She did not make any sounds, but her chest heaved up and down with suppressed sobs.

Fuck.

They spent the rest of the night in the Scottish Highlander pub on the Rue de Nevers, drinking. She'd apologized then, through sniffles, but she hadn't volunteered much information, and he hadn't asked. It was an ex boyfriend, that much he could get out. They'd been together for seven years, and it was still fresh. To be honest, he had nervously deflected talking about it, piling her up with whisky instead. He felt like he was sitting with a bomb, and under no circumstances did he want it to detonate.

He half carried her back to the Citadines around midnight. She'd immediately traipsed over to the elevator, and was halfway there when she realised Kirill wasn't following her.

"Aren't you coming?"

She looked at him enquiringly, expectantly. He took a deep breath and shook his head. She quickly walked over back to where he stood.

"Why?"

"Hush." She didn't realise how loud she was. The few people sitting in the lobby were staring at her with raised brows, wondering what the commotion was about. "Sit," he said, lowering himself on a nearby sofa and patting the space beside him. She sat with a clunk, lips pouting.

"I'm not taking you to bed while you're…like this."

"What, you mean drunk as a doorknob and unable to tell what I'm doing?" she said, still a little loudly. "Let me tell you something. When we first met, wasn't that what we both wanted? Don't tell me you just wanted to wine and dine me Kirill, because you don't look the type."

One of the guests ahem'ed rather obviously their way.

He sighed. _He was actually turning down sex._

He cupped her cheek, and looked at her steadily, his fingers gently caressing her face. "It's what I want," he said. He dropped his hand. "But it's not what I want right now."

"And what do you want, then?" she said a mite snippily, but her voice had lowered to a reasonable tenor.

He looked at her, and she felt herself drowning in hazel eyes. He reached forward and kissed her gently.

She couldn't refuse the kiss. He tasted male and minty fresh and his aftershave smelled wonderful. So this was what it was like to kiss him properly, without bursting irrationally into tears and having a cry fest into his shoulder. It was like taking an elevator straight to heaven. No that was blasphemous. Oh, fuck it…

The kiss was over before she knew it. Her eyes flew open disappointedly to find him watching her again.

"I'll be here tomorrow morning," he said. "Sleep well, princess."

He gave one last kiss on her brow, and then he got up, stretching those long, muscular legs, and strode out the hotel.

Hope you enjoy!

As for the French interchanged between the rude cab driver and Kirill, here are the translations-

'T'es content, petit dame!'- Are you happy, little lady?

'Elle a fait vous quittez uh?'- She made you quit, uh?

'Ah, femmes, femmes…ne peut pas vivre avec ou sans eux..'- Ah, women, women…can't live with them, can't live without them.

'Attendez ici'- Wait here.

'J'attendrai'- I'll wait.


	3. Love at the Louvre

Kirill stared at the canvas, his green-brown eyes expressionless. They had been walking around for a few hours now, looking at naked sculptures. Clearly, early artists had no qualms over nudity. Kirill disliked overt women. Showing too much skin left very little to the imagination, and was…tacky. It lowered his appetite, rather than whet it. However the sculptures were different. He decided nudity in the pursuit of artistry might just be beautiful.

On the canvas lay the form of yet another naked woman. She was stretched out on a bed, reclining, her back facing the observer, but her head was turned over her shoulder, gazing back at him. He started imagining Michelle on the blue satin sheets, and a white-hot geyser of desire shot up his cock. He calmed himself down and willed his energetic little man to stop tenting in his pants.

He hadn't touched her all day. He just…hovered, protectively, like a sentinel, but just out of her personal bubble, like he was afraid she'd suddenly grow horns and become a billy goat, ready to butt him at any moment with vicious fits of tears.

Kirill didn't know what to do. He wasn't going to up and leave. He'd ran the thought over in his head last night for one second, and knew it wasn't what he was going to do. He wanted her, yes. He wanted her damn badly. He just didn't want her to cry again. Anything but the crying. He'd never held a crying woman in his arms before, and he hoped he'd never again have to. She'd clutched his jacket and sobbed like there was no tomorrow, and he'd let her, lamely putting a hand on her back and soothing her with nonsensical murmurs before he'd let her get wasted in that pub. God, he was getting soft.

Michelle had woken up with the biggest headache of her entire life. It was throbbing, and then burning, alternatively and repeatedly. God, she _never_ drank whisky. She was a gin and tonic person, a two glasses of red wine per night person. When she had finally managed to prop herself up by the side of the bed, she remembered anew what had transpired the night before and groaned inwardly.

 _They were about to have sex!_

She moaned aloud in frustration and buried her head into her nightshirt. _She was about to have sex with the first guy she'd been attracted to in months!_ And then she'd burst into a fit of tears over…

Goddammit, no, she thought, willing the tears not to fall again. _Seven years_ , she thought fiercely. I am not crying _any more_ tears. I've cried _enough._

And then she'd cried.

Not over the old boyfriend. She was thinking…thinking about yesterday. The whole day had been magical, really perfect, and then she had to go ahead and fucking _cry_. He'd said he'd be there in the morning, but Michelle knew better. She didn't blame him if he was running for the hills now. Getting the fuck away from the scary emotional woman.

She had gotten up with stiff limbs, and willed herself towards the shower. Just as she was wrapping her hair in a fluffy white towel, the phone rang.

It was front desk. The guy's voice was nasal, with a heavy French accent.

"A Monsieur Kondrashin is waiting for you in the lobby, ma'am."

She'd blinked, once twice, and stood still. "Pardon?"

"A Monsieur Kondrashin, ma'am. You are not expecting him?"

Kondrashin…. _Kirill._

He was _here._

Shit.

"Ma'am?"

Michelle forgot she was still holding the phone to her ear. "Yes, I am expecting him. Please tell him I will be down as soon as I can."

"Oui, mademoiselle."

She'd jammed the phone down on the receiver and stood there like a lunatic. Then she'd run as fast as she could towards her suitcase, palming her clothes in a flurry to find something decent to wear.

She'd bounded down at half past ten in blue jeans and a cute white crochet knit top. Kirill was waiting in the lobby. He rose up when he saw her.

They didn't talk. They didn't touch. He'd asked her where she'd wanted to go, and after a few seconds, she'd told him. And now they were in the Louvre. She didn't have a clue whether he was enjoying himself or not. She looked over at him. He was still staring at _Grande Odalisque_.

"Do you like the painting?" she asked.

He scrunched up his face a little. "Her back is too long."

She gave a small giggle. "How can you tell?"

She slipped a hand by his elbow and stared at the painting. He stiffened. They stayed in silence for a few minutes.

"She does look a little unrealistic," she admitted.

"Her pelvis would have to be made of rubber, to turn like that."

Michelle stifled a snigger, and then burst out laughing.

"It's true."

Kirill had a completely straight face. Michelle nudged him gently, willing him to make eye contact. He did. Her grin was infectious, and he found his lips curving upwards ever so slightly. They walked away from the painting, their shoes clacking on the wooden floorboards.

"I. I thought you weren't coming today," she said after awhile.

Kirill raised his eyebrow. He was an expert at brow raising. "Why not?"

She tried to look him in the eyes but couldn't. "Look- I am sorry about last night. I didn't expect us to do a fancy dinner, and it was incredible…and thank you for letting me cry my heart out on your shoulder, but you didn't have to do it. Not for what we're doing."

Kirill's eyebrow shot up even higher, and his voice was terse. "And what exactly is it that we're doing?"

She looked at him. "You know what we're doing. We're total strangers who have just met, out of favourable coincidence, with the outcome to have casual and meaningless sex."

He didn't bat an eyelid.

"Interesting assessment."

Michelle frowned. He reached his hand to cup her cheek and kissed her.

As like the last kiss, it was over far too soon. He pulled away after only seconds, absentmindedly stroking her hair.

"I'm afraid I don't have all the answers with you," he said with a self-deprecating twist of his lips.

Michelle's heart was going to fall into a pile of mush at the bottom of her rib cage. She felt like she was sinking. Into quicksand. Deep, hazel eyed, sinful, muscular quicksand.

They walked hand in hand down the long galleries, stopping in front of some briefly, others for minutes. Kirill didn't say, but he liked it. He hadn't been to an art gallery since he was a very young child. As an adult he had not entertained many other thoughts other than his next assignment, his next kill, and getting out of it alive. He had no room for this, no time to ponder other things in life. Until now.

There was a special exhibition being showcased by two more contemporary artists. Since it was a weekday, the gallery was not crowded, and they had perused the collection at their leisure. He liked these the best. Some had no coherent form, no noticeable structure. But when he looked at the canvas, stared at the blurred lines and strange symbols, he felt his mind wandering, seeing things only he alone were meant to see. It made sense, but only to him.

They had lunch outside, in a café around the corner. The absent minded waitress had given them French menus, and Michelle did not want to admit how poor her French was, so she just let Kirill order. She tried not to stare again, as he jabbered on perfectly when the waitress came by to take their order.

"How do you do that?" she said in amazement as she left.

"Do what?"

"I'm sorry. Let me rephrase. When did you learn French? In Russian school?"

Kirill lied. "One of my family friends was French. I used to spend some summers here."

"Oh," Michelle said, satisfied.

Kirill felt bad lying to her. A little…something was gnawing at his insides. It was a feeling he was most unused to.

"And you never visited the Louvre?"

The incredulity in her voice made him smile. " _Niet,"_ he said. "My family is not very- artistically inclined."

"You mean your family friends."

"That too."

There was a small silence. Kirill fingered the napkin on his lap, twisting it.

"And you? Your family is- fond of art?"

Michelle nodded. "My mother is. She wanted to go to the Sorbonne to study when she was young. Her mother said no way," she chuckled. "She was amazing, though. She used to teach me how to draw growing up. She was very good. She had talent."

"She should have gone to study, then."

"They were too poor."

"That doesn't stop someone who really wants something," he said, thinking back to his own early days. Him, Katya, Nada, Nika in the same room, sharing it with a pitiful mattress each. Cockroaches and dirty rats in the cellars.

Michelle looked thoughtful. "True."

Their meals arrived.

"Did you always want to be a police officer?"

Kirill froze a little and then resumed what he was doing with the knife and fork. "It seemed- the right profession for me."

"How so?"

 _I'm good at killing people_ , he thought inwardly.

"I'm efficient. I'm good at doing what needs to be done. And I excelled at hand to hand combat."

"Nothing to do with protecting life and preserving the peace," Michelle teased.

A ghost of a smile came across Kirill's lips. "In some cases."

"Must be pretty tough at times."

He thought back to his last kill. He'd shot a man off a bridge on his jeep and watched as the car sank to the bottom of the river.

"Yes," he said. "But that's what we're trained for."

She'd nodded then, her eyes compassionate.

 _She wouldn't be as compassionate if she knew half the things he'd done_ , he thought. They finished the meal in silence. Kirill paid and tipped the waitress, and then they left. They wound their own lazy trajectory back to the hotel, this time stopping to rest at Pont Neuf. Kirill liked it better here. There were no interlocked lovers with their lips attacking one another, just a lot of Japanese tourists who took a lot of pictures. That he could live with.

"How do you usually spend your holidays?" she asked.

His facial expression did not change. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a proper holiday. He looked away for a moment, then drank from his water bottle.

"Nightclubs. Women. Drinking."

She arched an eyebrow. "I see."

The ice in her voice amused him and made another part of him grimace.

She had turned to face the river, her arms folding gracefully atop the railing.

"I get it. It's the usual thing for men to do. Get smashed, get laid."

The casual tone in her voice made his stomach turn to granite.

"It is," he said. "But not the best thing for them to do."

She turned to look at him. "Is that why you decided to come here?"

"Perhaps," he said, leaning against the rail also, his eyes looking over the water.

She looked at his profile. He was beautiful yes, but hawk like at a certain angle. Michelle sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be a judgmental bigot."

He shrugged. "Your assessment is not inaccurate."

"That I'm being a judgmental bigot?"

He chuckled. "No. Of course not."

They stood there in comfortable silence again, looking out at the water. Then, his curiosity got the better of him.

"What happened?"

She looked at him. From his expression, she could tell what he was referring to.

For a moment he thought she was going to cry again, and he was going to tell her to forget about it, but she didn't. Her forehead had screwed up, and her lips were pursed. She blew out one long breath.

"I was an idiot."

She didn't say anything else.

"I find that hard to believe," Kirill said tentatively.

"I was," she said again. "I stayed with a man who was completely selfish and arrogant for seven years. I knew who he was and yet I stayed."

"Why did you?"

She was gazing out at the water, lost in her thoughts. Her voice was soft. "I told myself I was strong enough to handle it. I was proud of myself, for not needing him, for not needing his attention, or his love to make me happy or complete."

"Looks like you didn't need him much then," he said.

"But in the end, we all need love. I needed love. I needed support, and encouragement, and all those normal, healthy things you are supposed to get in a relationship, and you know what the stupid thing is?"

She turned to him but didn't wait for him to answer. "I stayed anyway! I stayed with a man who I knew could not provide me with those things."

She gave a little gulp. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"I put up with so little, for so long," she said. Her face scowled, and she turned to face the water again.

"In the end I can only blame myself."

Kirill was at a loss as to what to do. He could feel her pain, though, and it almost hurt him. He wrapped an arm around her and waited for her to finish crying.

"Shh," he said. He lifted her tear filled face to look up towards him. "You know what I think?" he said.

She shook her head.

"I think you were being too strong for your own good."

She sniffled again, and a few tears squeezed out. She pulled out a tissue from her pocket.

"He's got to be the idiot, for losing you," he muttered softly as she dabbed at her eyes.

She smiled at him, her eyes red and puffy, and his heart gave an enormous wrench.

He knew he was in big trouble.


	4. Cooking adventures

They were in a bar on the Rue Guenegaud.

"Are you alright, Kirill?"

He gave her a wan smile, which drooped down into a scowl once she turned back to sip her drink. No, he was not alright. He had to jack himself off twice in the morning. He was sexually frustrated, and it was making him grumpy. He'd never had to wait for sex, and here she was, looking like sex on legs in a dress that screamed fuck me. It was another shade of red, which seemed to be her colour. Blood red.

He downed the rest of the whisky and excused himself, heading to the men's room. When he was done, he splashed some water onto his face and took a glance in the mirror.

He looked like hell.

If this was what normal people did, he didn't know how they could stand it. Give it another day or so and his dick would explode. But he would endure.

She was like a bottle of very good wine. She just needed time.

He splashed more water on his face. It had a soothing effect. He dried himself up and went back out. He froze when he saw what was happening.

A very ardent patron was behind Michelle's chair, tapping her on the shoulder and eagerly gesticulating to her. Her eyes were flashing daggers, but he didn't seem to notice.

"I'm with someone," she said in a clipped voice, trying to turn back around.

But where was he, the man replied drunkenly, and he didn't seem to be doing a very good job at keeping a hold of such a beautiful girl, leaving her alone like that. He'd do a better job, he was sure. He went to put a hand on her shoulder.

Kirill's first instinct was to haul the asshole over the bar, but something stopped him. _She can handle it,_ said a small voice in his head. So he stood and watched.

Michelle removed the hand firmly. "I said I'm with someone," she said in a louder, cross tone. "And even if I wasn't, _I'm not interested."_

She had her back to him, and he was still gabbling on about how she couldn't know if she was interested or not if she didn't give him a go, and what was the harm anyway…

He reached for her again, and she swatted his hand away. Then he grabbed the sleeve of her dress.

It ripped clean off.

Everyone in the bar stood still.

And then she backhanded him across the face.

The guy landed on the floor.

The bar burst out into applause.

The guy scrambled to his feet, swore a few times, and then shot out the door.

Michelle sat in shock. She looked half appalled, half pleased at what she'd done. Without acknowledging the applauding crowd, she stood up, picked up the sleeve that lay on the floor, and walked over to Kirill.

"Remind me not to piss you off," Kirill said in admiration.

"I don't usually lose my temper," she stuttered in explanation as their made their way out of the place, ignoring all looks directed their way. "But I really liked this dress."

She looked at the piece of material pitifully and sighed. Then she looked up at him.

"Why are you so happy?" she asked.

"I'm not," he said.

"Yes you are. You're grinning like mad."

"It's a lovely evening," was all he said as they walked back, hand in hand down the Seine.

It had been a beautiful day as well, he reflected. Well _mostly_ beautiful. He had gone over to her hotel, and they had toured the city in a bright yellow bus. They visited the Champ d' Elysees, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Notre Dame Cathedral.

And then she'd gotten that _idea._

"I'm tired of eating out," Michelle she said sleepily as she rested on his shoulder. They were on a one-hour cruise down the Seine. "Let's cook tonight."

His eyebrows shot up.

"Cook?"

"Yes. Surely you can."

He didn't say anything.

She got up, frowning at him. "You have never cooked?"

He took his time to think.

"I can use a toaster."

"That doesn't count."

He thought again.

"I can boil an egg."

"So you survive on boiled eggs?"

He shrugged. "I buy food. I don't have time to cook."

She was giving him an almost withering look.

"You mean to tell me you eat take out _every single day_?"

He looked at her and frowned, nodding. "What's so bad about that?"

She looked aghast.

"How do you stay fit?"

"I eat lots of meat."

She muttered under her breath.

"Well, I guess every guy has his weak spot," she finally said. She crawled back under his arm.

The boat finally pulled into the shore.

She hopped off impatiently, like she was on a mission.

"Where are we going?" he said as she pulled his arm.

"Markets."

They traipsed back to the Citadines loaded with brown paper bags.

When they entered her room, he sniffed the air.

"What's wrong?" she said as she put down the paper bags on the kitchen table.

Kirill sniffed again.

 _Men's perfume._

"Is there someone else here?" he said stiffly.

"Why do you ask?"

She just looked at him, her eyes wide with innocence.

"I smell men's perfume," he said in a flat voice.

"Ohhh," she said with a grin.

He looked so pissed, it was adorable.

"It's mine," she said sheepishly. "I sometimes wear it. I haven't since I came to Paris, though. I've used it to scent the bathroom."

"Why?" he frowned.

"It just smells better."

"Ah," he said, now feeling foolish.

She sniggered.

"What?" he said defensively.

"You really thought I was like, keeping some guy hidden in my kitchen cabinets or something while I go out with you during the day?"

He started busying himself with unpacking the bags. "No."

She looked at him and shook her head, biting back a smile.

"Alright then."

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in front of the stove. A pot stood there, gently bubbling. He was sweating.

"What's the use of going to all this trouble?" he said as he wiped his palms on his trousers. "We could just go out to eat."

"Are you kidding me?" she said as she chopped up the tomatoes and tipped them into a bowl. "Home cooked meals always taste better. That's the beauty of staying in an apartment hotel. Having a kitchenette. It's just like home!"

He thought back to his apartment in Moscow. The stove there sat in permanent disuse.

"How's the pasta doing?"

He stared into the pot. "I'm not sure."

"I guess it's still early."

He nodded, and then swallowed.

She put down the knife. "I'm going to take a shower," she said suddenly. "I stink."

She started to make her way to her suitcase.

Kirill panicked. "What do I do?"

She was rummaging through her clothes. "Just wait until the pasta has boiled. Then turn the stove off."

"Alright."

 _I can manage that,_ he thought. _Turn off stove. It's just one thing._

She headed towards the bathroom, clothes in hand.

"How long do I wait?" he said anxiously. "Five minutes? Eight minutes? Eleven minutes?"

"You'll just _know,"_ she said serenely.

"Oh. And if you can chop some onions, that would be great," she said before she slid the door closed.

Dammit.

He stood forlornly in front of the stove, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon.

 _This is bullshit_ , he thought sourly after five minutes. The water hadn't changed at all. It was making him edgy. _You'll just know. There should be a precise way of doing this. Someone should have come up with a standard set of instructions on how to boil pasta by now._

 _You have to do something else too_ , a voice reminded him.

Ah, yes. Chop the onions.

He found them in a mesh bag. He cut it open. Two should do, he thought.

He peeled off the skins and started chopping.

He was so immersed in what he was doing he didn't see that the water had started to swirl. Then it started to froth and rise.

A hissing sound caught his attention. Water was coming over the sides of the pot.

"Shit!"

He dropped the knife.

He started pressing dials. Turning them. Nothing happened. The water kept boiling over. The smoke alarm went off.

Michelle ran out of the bathroom. A towel was wrapped around her body.

Calmly, she went over to the stove and turned the correct dial off. Then she took a dishcloth and moved the pot to another hob. Clutching the towel, she waved the cloth up and down in the direction of the smoke alarm.

It stopped beeping.

She looked at him and grinned. "Geez, you weren't kidding when you said you couldn't cook."

He looked so terribly clueless, Michelle thought. It was kind of adorable.

"It's okay, Kirill," she said as she picked up the knife. "I made the same mistakes when I learnt how to cook."

He took the knife from her and resumed chopping the onions. "I didn't think it would be so hard."

"It's not. You're just not used to it."

He put the knife down. His eyes were starting to tear.

"I think you've domesticated me."

He suddenly took in sight what she was wearing. Her hair was dripping wet.

"I haven't kissed you today," he said huskily.

She smiled and stepped forward, towards him.

"Then kiss me."

His lips were on her's in an instant, his arms around her slim body. Unfortunately, his eyes just wouldn't stop tearing.

He pulled apart from her, and she looked at him, surprised.

"Sorry, it's just…"

He stood there, blinking rapidly. "Jesus, my eyes hurt…"

Her eyes widened.

"Onions."

"What?" he said. His eyes were in agony.

"My eyes are burning!"

"It's the onions. Wash your hands, thoroughly, and then wash your face."

He did what she said, and the pain went away.

" _Svyatoye der'mo_!" he muttered as he poured the water over his face.

She gazed at him anxiously. "Are you okay?"

He nodded.

She sighed. "My dad has the same problem. He has to wear goggles when he cuts them."

He shook his head. "I don't know why people go to so much trouble."

She chuckled. "You'll see."

The dinner was good. More than good, actually. It was great. He wasn't quite convinced he would go through the pain of preparation again, but he had to admit, it tasted different from shop bought food. Good different.

And then they had a night out, again, and then some guy had hit on Michelle and she had slapped him silly.

All in all, it had been a very good day.

They made it back from the bar early, around ten pm.

"We're running out of things to do," Michelle said.

Kirill grinned. "I'm sure I'll think of something."

She buried her nose into his shirt. "I'm sure you will."

"You're not coming up, tonight?"

She sounded hopeful.

He looked at her. " _Niet,"_ he said gently.

She tried to protest, but he kissed her, silencing any objections. She went over to the lifts, and pressed her floor button.

"Sleep well, princess," he said as the elevator doors closed.


	5. Memories

Chapter 5

"Ohhh look!"

They passed another vineyard and Michelle stuck her nose out the window.

"It's beautiful!"

Kirill smiled.

It had been his idea. He didn't know where he kept coming up with these romantic suggestions, since before this he didn't think he had a single romantic bone in his body. But apparently he had. A long scenic drive through French countryside, visiting cute little villages and historic churches and a cosy bed and breakfast to top it all off. He'd done the whole works. Miraculously, he'd also stopped thinking about sex. He was thinking of congratulating his penis.

The Renault tore around another corner, leaving the vineyard behind them as well as a cloud of dust.

"You drive like the devil," she muttered.

He grinned.

"You can always drive."

"I can't drive on the right side of the road," she complained, swallowing down a mouthful of water from her bottle. "And I can't drive a manual."

"You can always learn."

"It's okay."

"Well then you shouldn't complain about my driving," he said, raising an infamous brow.

She huffed and sat back in the seat, closing her eyes.

"You win."

He gave another grin.

God. They sounded like a married couple.

"How do you drive manual, anyway?"

"You have to change gears for different stages. You should know that."

"I do. I just- ugh, I don't know why I asked."

"I suspect you have just never tried to do it," he said, his eyes never leaving the road. "It's not that hard. Especially for someone like you."

"What do you mean, someone like me?"

He glanced over at her. "You're intelligent. If you want to do something you can."

Michelle sat in silence for a minute.

"Can you teach me? Now?"

Her voice was shy, soft.

He pulled over, startling a few cows by the side of the fence.

He got out of the car. She'd already shut the passenger door. She looked nervous.

She got into the driver's side, and he into the passenger seat.

He clicked on his belt and put a hand over her's.

"There are three pedals instead of two," he pointed. "The one on the very left is the new one, the clutch."

She nodded.

"You probably know how the stick shift works," he continued, his hand moving her's to cover it. She nodded.

On his instruction, she practised changing gears with the park brake on.

He nodded in satisfaction. "The best way to remember is press clutch, change gear, press accelerator and release clutch. Once you have that it is easy."

Kirill was a good teacher.

He was patient, and he gave clear, easy instructions. It wasn't long before she was tearing through the hills herself.

"Oh my god!" Michelle yelled, her face alight with joy. "I CAN DRIVE MANUAL!"

Kirill sat in the passenger seat looking smug.

The Renault drove around another corner.

"Thank you," she said in a more demure tone.

"You're welcome." he said modestly.

"Why didn't you learn before?" he asked after a few minutes.

"I didn't have the right teacher," she said, flicking a grin towards him.

His smugness level hit an alarming all time high.

They reached Dijon just past lunch. Hungry, they scoured the town for an eatery, and then trotted about, sight seeing. They arrived at the bed and breakfast tanned and happy.

The building was a refurbished 17th century townhouse. Pink jacaranda trees lined the courtyard. They had a large suite on the first floor, furnished tastefully in taupe, ebony and ivory. Sumptuous curtains lined the windows. Everything was charming and immaculate. And there was only one bed.

It was a big bed. But there was only one of it.

Both of them looked at it. And then Kirill announced he was taking a shower, and Michelle went to unpack her clothes.

 _One bed_ , he thought derisively as the water ran through his hair and down his spine. Of course there was only going to be one bed. Only couples booked these sorts of boutique hotels. _Maybe it'll finally happen then_ , he thought, dreamily. His penis heard him.

Uh oh.

Control.

Control.

Celibacy is good.

 _She's in the next room!_

He had to make it quick. He palmed himself slowly, thinking of her. He grit his teeth to stop a moan. He imagined her face, her lips. On his cock. In the shower…

He was panting slightly.

His release came hard and fast, leaving him gasping. He closed his eyes and breathed hard.

Goddammit.

 _It had better happen soon._

He turned up the heat, making sure all traces were gone before he finished up. His face was hot from the steam, but he'd survive. He'd die if she knew what he'd been up to.

He'd taken his clothes in with him to the bathroom. He took his time to shave, still basking in the afterglow of his handy work.

When he'd come out, she'd finished packing. She was lounging about, reading something on her Kindle. Music was wafting from her laptop.

She was humming along.

He went to sit by her.

"What are you reading?"

"How to count in Russian. I can, but I'm rusty."

"What can you count to?"

"One hundred."

He nodded.

"The music. It is beautiful."

She tilted her head up to look at him, smiling. "It's one of my favourites. It's by Rachmaninov."

She switched off her Kindle. "It's sad and beautiful."

Her head swayed in time with the music. "He must have been a deeply lonely man."

Kirill wrapped an arm around her.

"Geez, you're warm."

She snuggled close to him.

"You took a hot shower?"

He just nodded.

"What keeps you doing it?"

She was picking spots of lint off the sofa and looked at him with a smile.

"What do I do?"

"Play piano. What drives you?"

She paused to think.

"I love it."

"That's it?"

She shrugged. "That's it."

"There must be days, times where you must- get sick of it."

"Of course," she said simply, still picking. Something else had come on the laptop now, something a little more cheerful, with a running cascade of notes. "Especially when I was younger. There are days where I have a rest. But that's all it is, a rest."

She slipped down to lean against him. "Usually when I am like that I know it is because there is something else in my life bothering me. When I play, it is like my mind is being sorted. I can think properly, understand myself properly."

She fingered the fabric of the sofa, satisfied there was no more lint. "I suppose I think of it as my very old friend."

"What is this music now?"

" _Miroirs._ No 3. By Ravel. French composer."

"You like his music too?"

"I do, but I'm careful with him. Sometimes he composes masterpieces, and others…I'm not sure what happened. Rachmaninov's more stable."

He paused, listening.

"Are you ready to go out? Or do you want to shower?"

Michelle thought. "I'll have a quick shower."

She got her things ready and padded over to the bathroom. She came out about a minute later, sniffing daintily.

"Kirill?"

"Yes?"

"It smells…of camembert cheese in the shower."

Kirill lifted a brow.

"Yeah, I know it sounds stupid. But I have a very sensitive nose, and-"

Her eyes widened. Then they narrowed.

"Never mind," she said curtly. Then she walked back in and shut the door.

 _Busted._

They ate in a quiet bistro in Dijon, neither of them talking much. The shower incident was not mentioned, though Michelle coughed when the cheeseboard came out, with a large portion of Camembert. She refused to touch it.

When they got back to the inn, neither of them mentioned the bed. They just wriggled into it, side by side. His arm went around her.

"Where did you grow up?"

Michelle smiled. "Well, I grew up in Sydney's west. I'm a Westie. You can tell by the way I talk."

"We had a house on a hill with an enormous garden. There were two huge mango trees. Every summer we'd get a good haul. We'd have birthday parties in the backyard, and it was big enough to fit quite a few inflatable pools."

She sighed, thinking. "And then we moved. I had dreams of buying that property, and some stupid developer came and bulldozed it and built an atrocity of a mansion."

She paused. "Shithead."

"And the new house?"

"The new house was fine. The backyard was big, just not as big. We got a dog. He's still miraculously alive. He's about 18 years old now and eats as much as a horse."

"What did you do growing up?"

Michelle laced her fingers through his. "Piano, school, tennis. I loved school. I was the academic sort. But I had fun too. Played sport, played in bands. It was lovely."

A wave of nostalgia hit her. Thinking about those times was like thinking of another life, a bygone era.

"Both your parents are alive?"

"Yes. My mother is a…real businesswoman. My dad's semi retired, but it's driving him crazy. He used to call me everyday, and I finally had to tell him to stop."

She stifled a giggle. "Dad's very sensitive, so he took offence. He calls my brother, now."

"You have other siblings?"

"Just my brother."

"Older or younger?"

"He's younger than me by seven years."

"You are close?"

Michelle smiled again and rested her head on his shoulder. "Yeah. He is a difficult pain in the ass sometimes, but yes, we're very close."

"He lives in the States," she continued. "He moved there about three years ago to be with his partner. We Skype, regularly enough, and text. But I miss him."

Kirill nodded. He couldn't help it. He _liked_ knowing more about her. "And your parents? They miss him."

"Definitely. Sometimes I think they're clinging onto me, because he's gone. But I suppose it's only natural."

"What about your family?" she asked, after a short while.

Michelle felt Kirill stiffen next to her. She looked over at him, worried. His eyes were staring at the ceiling with a faraway look.

"It's okay. You don't need to- if it's painful."

Kirill kept on staring.

His mother had been the only good thing in his life. She just had a talent to pick the worst guys in existence to be with.

He glanced over at Michelle. She was cozied up against him, her eyes closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping.

"I'm afraid my childhood was quite different from your's," he said in a soft voice as he stroked her hair. "I almost envy you."

Her eyes opened. She was listening.

"I don't know who my father was."

He spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

"My mother raised me. We lived in Tolyatti, a city southeast of Russia. We stayed in a- not a house; it was like a small building attached to a house. The man who owned it rented it to my mother. He told me he came to her when she just had me, and she was desperate."

"We stayed there in peace for a few years. And then came another man, and another child. He would abuse her, hit her, scream at her. And then he left. I was five."

"Shit."

She touched his arm. "That's awful, Kirill."

"At least he left. It was just me, my mother, and the baby. My mother had to go out and work, so I minded her."

Michelle smiled a little. Thinking about Kirill holding a child made her go gooey.

"And then came another man. Same thing happened. Another child. Another girl."

He shifted a little on the bed to look at her. "Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"

Michelle looked back at him. "Yes," she said as she squeezed his hand.

He nodded and continued. "Then there came another man. It was me, Nika and Katya. I was fourteen. Nika was nine. Katya was five."

Kirill's mouth grew tight.

"He was a _pedofil."_

Michelle gave a small gasp. "Oh no, Kirill."

"He used to come into our room. We shared a bedroom. My mother slept in the living room. He wasn't interested in me," Kirill said. "He was interested in Nika."

"The first night he did it, I tried to stop him. He kicked me in the ribs so hard I thought I'd died. I tried to tell my mother. I think she already knew. But he was too strong for her."

"What happened?" Michelle said softly.

There was a silence.

"Kirill?"

"I killed him."

Michelle froze.

She felt Kirill's hand on her jaw, turning her face towards him. "You wanted to know," he said.

She swallowed.

"He killed my mother."

She looked at him then, in pity and horror.

"What happened?"

"As I said, she'd tried to get him to stop. They got into an argument. She pulled out the kitchen knife. He grabbed it from her. Stabbed her."

Tears fell down Michelle's face.

"I saw what happened," he said in a soft voice. "I remember not very much. All I remember next is I was on his chest, and I was beating his face. The knife was already between his ribs. A policeman had to pull me from his body."

He looked at her, his eyes green, full of emotion.

"A lot of people called my mother a whore. Said she didn't deserve any pity. She got herself into her own mess. But to me she was only my mother. She was a good mother. She was just terrible at life."

Her tears were coming hard and fast now, and Kirill reached for the tissue box.

"Here," he said gently, lifting the tissues to her nose. She blew.

When she'd stopped weeping she snuggled close to him again. "I can't imagine what you've been through," she whispered. "What happened next?"

"I was charged with manslaughter. The judge was lenient on me; I was a minor, I was under fourteen, and the circumstances were in my favour. I got a suspended sentence. It was dismissed after some time."

"And Nika? And Katya?"

"We were separated. We went to different foster homes. The new baby was given up for adoption. We lost contact."

"That's so sad, Kirill."

He nodded. It wasn't completely true. Nika still wrote him letters. He would respond with brief, curt notes. But that part of him he felt he was not ready to share.

"And then you joined the police force?" she said, curling a finger through her hair.

" _Da._ When I was eighteen."

"That's nice then," she sighed and snuggled onto his chest.

He stroked the side of her arm absentmindedly. "What is?"

"You chose a job that fights injustice. It's poetic. It's like you are avenging her, with your life. She would be very proud of you, Kirill."

 _I doubt it,_ he thought. He ran his fingers through her long hair. She smelled nice. He put his nose on her head. _Like jasmine._

They fell asleep in one another's arms.


	6. The night

Kirill inhaled deeply. He breathed in the scent of jasmine.

Her hair. He couldn't get enough of its scent.

His inner voice kept saying things. He didn't do lover. He was a cold, cold killer. He didn't have feelings. He should back the fuck away now.

His arms were wrapped around her, his head atop her own. He closed his eyes.

The light was soft, her hair beautiful in the lamplight.

He didn't give a shit what his inner voice said anymore.

 _'_ _Back to you_

 _It always comes around, back to you_

 _I try to forget you_

 _Try to stay away_

 _But it's too late_

 _Over you, I'm never over, over you_

 _It's something about you, just the way you move_

 _The way you move me_

 _Yeah, I'm so good at forgetting_

 _I quit every game I play_

 _But forgive me, love_

 _I can't turn and walk away, this way_

 _Back to you_

 _It always comes around, back to you_

 _I walk in your shadow, sleeping in my bed_

 _With your silhouette_

They swayed in perfect time to the music. Moving in sync. Stepping in tune to one another, orbiting one another. She was humming against his chest. The guitarist crooned into the microphone under the single dim spotlight.

 _Leave the light on_

 _I'll never give up on you_

 _Leave the light on for me too_

 _For me too_

 _For me too_

Somehow both of them knew it was going to be that night.

They walked back to the car, his hand pressed to the small of her back. She got into the Renault without a word. He drove back to the bed and breakfast in silence, the tension between them crackling the air.

When they got to the apartment she turned on the small lamp, lighting the room with a gentle orange glow.

He took off his jacket.

She shrugged out of her cardigan.

She came over and helped him with his shirt, flicking off the buttons one by one. His lips found hungrily, kissing her ravenously as she undid the last of the buttons and pulled off his shirt.

He gripped her waist closer and she moaned as his mouth demanded more, his tongue delightfully hot. It stroked tortuously against her's, driving her crazy until she forgot about breathing. She finally pulled apart from him, gasping for air, her eyes blazing as she slid the top over her slim shoulders and above her head.

Kirill's eyes glazed over. Fuck, he thought.

A lacy red bra hugged two perfect breasts. The curves of them spilled out from the top of the red material, milk white with a glowing sheen.

He pulled her towards him. They stumbled onto the bed, picking off clothing in a frenzy.

He kissed her again, and took his time kissing her, but the more he did the more the ache in his loins overwhelmed him, consumed him. He wanted her, and he was losing it, badly. Every second longer into the kiss was making his head spin down into treacherous, uncharted waters.

Her skin was like hot, moving silk. He kissed her mouth again, tasting her, then pulled away quickly to press his lips against her jaw. He moved his mouth raggedly in a slow, torturous motion, tracing a line down her throat, and then he buried his lips into her neck.

She gave out a long, satisfied moan that made his already rampant cock impossibly stiffer. His fingers were moving against her skin, touching, exploring. He gave a small moan himself when he covered a breast. His hips thrust forward, his cock sliding painfully against her stomach. She felt so sweet, so soft in his hand. His mouth brushed over her lips again, and the kiss soon became frantic, his mouth bruising her's, his tongue sliding to meet her's eagerly.

Abruptly he broke the kiss, breathing heavily. His left arm braced his weight on the bed as he fought to gain control. If he didn't get a grip now, he would see red soon and the night would be brief- not the way he wanted it.

"Kirill?"

She breathed out his name, making his cock twitch more. He took slow, deep, inaudible breaths.

She was looking at him quizzically, but his eyes were wandering downward to land on perfect breasts, soft breasts…He firmly took himself by the eyeballs and stared into her liquid brown orbs instead, reaching out with his other hand to stroke the side of her face. His touch was searing hot.

"I want this to last," he said, gazing at her inexorably. "I want you to remember. I want to remember."

Her lips curved upward. His weight was warm, pleasant atop her own. He drove her mad. Tall, dark and handsome.

"We'll go slowly."

She nodded.

His lips covered her's again, sensuous but light. He spoke in Russian against them, tantalising words in his native tongue. It was lulling her. She felt sensual, yes, but safe and loved. He held her close, his strong arms wrapped around her, his body covering her's.

Only after some minutes did his tongue slide out, seeking entrance. She parted her lips with a sigh, her mind in a hazy fog. His tongue stroked her's lazily, unhurriedly, his body moving involuntarily to rock against her own. She whimpered, pressing against him, copying his movements.

"Shh, shh," he said huskily. "Slowly."

"I think you're going to kill me with your slowly, Kirill," she said in a murmur.

He chuckled against her skin, and she gave a little shiver.

"I don't intend to kill tonight."

Something ominous came over her then, though she knew not what. This vanished soon after it appeared, and all she could see was the green-brown of his eyes, feel the warmth of his weight, and urgency ran through her blood.

"Touch me, Kirill."

"As you command."

His voice was low and soft, so soft. She felt large, warm, calloused fingers stroke her arms, her back. She relaxed into his touch, her head lying back. Slowly, his hands stroked her breasts, the milk white skin trembling and puckering to his playing. She gave small sighs of pleasure, and arched her back towards him. Encouraged, he bent forward to finally taste.

She cried out as soon as she felt Kirill's hot, damp lips on her nipple. His tongue dove out hungrily, thoroughly pleasuring one perfect breast before turning to the other and doing the same, slowly and just as thoroughly. Her fingers were threaded through his hair, clutching the short strands as his mouth worked magic. This was all magic tonight. This man, his mouth, just- him.

He didn't stop until she was panting, and when he did it was only to crush his mouth onto her's, his lips hard, his tongue diving in, stroking and demanding and wreaking general havoc on her senses.

She was wet, really wet. She was more than ready for him, so when he did not enter he she whimpered again against his mouth and ground herself against him. He tore himself away again with a moan.

"Slowly, remember," he said.

"But I want you now," she whined. "I want you, Kirill."

He almost gave in, but willed himself to control. He'd spent most his life controlling his urges.

"So much more to come, princess," he said, his eyes smouldering. "Don't stop me now."

His fingers moved between her wetness as she gave a shocked gasp, instinctively clamping her thighs together upon his hand.

"Shh," he whispered against her ear. "Relax, relax."

He planted a soft kiss on her mouth, and her legs began to part, allowing his fingers to begin their exploration anew. She was gasping regularly now, in between breathy moans. His fingers were entirely wicked, so wicked as they stroked and played her until she was mewling like a kitten in heat. It didn't take her long to come apart, and when she did she gave a soft cry, golden veins of delight shooting through her blood, exploding and then sprinkling like raindrops.

When she'd come out of her daze he was looking at her, gazing at her, his expression gentle.

"You look amazing when you're in ecstasy," he said softly.

A rosy crimson started to creep over her cheeks.

"That was amazing."

" _Da."_

She frowned a little, and then a mischievous look came over her face. "Time for me to repeat the favour."

He shook his head. "Not tonight, my sweet."

"Why?"

Her almost hurt look made him crack a tiny smile. "You can kill me another night."

She chuckled. "Alright. Then make love to me."

His eyes flared with passion, lust and something else. He bent down to kiss her again, and this time he let the kiss deepen. His body ground against her's urgently, and he growled as her's moved against his just as hungrily.

He ground something guttural in Russian as his cock entered her soft sheath and he growled loudly as he buried himself completely within her. They moaned together, the feeling delicious, intoxicating, burning.

His muscles felt like they had caught fire as he sped up, his body moving against's her's, his hardness wrapped in her soft inviting flesh. They were both groaning now, the sounds echoing off the walls and high ceiling. He was slamming into her, his thrusts possessive.

"Mine," he growled into her ear. "You're mine."

Michelle had never had such erotic sex in her life. It was tender, but scorching hot. He was loving her, but marking her, claiming her, and it was the hottest thing she'd ever experienced.

They finally reached a crescendo, exploding together with exultant cries and moans. Michelle could feel her world falling in dizzy colours, her brain entirely warped. Kirill was clinging onto her, and she felt for a few minutes their entire beings were in complete and utter connection with one another.

They lay still for several moments. Minutes, an hour may have passed. It made no difference. Something momentous had occurred, and time had no way of measuring it.

Kirill looked up. He had been lying on Michelle's chest, and he looked at her peaceful face. Her eyes were shut. He wasn't sure if she was asleep or not. He kissed her sweat-dampened skin and rolled onto his back slowly, staring at the ceiling.

It had been awhile since he'd been with a woman. The last was…well, before Goa. Before Berlin. And the last times had been inordinately different. The woman in his arms, breathing his name, was the real deal. She meant something. _That_ had meant something.

"You're religious?"

Her voice was soft, but not sleepy. She turned onto her side and looked at him.

He rolled to face her, his hands finding her face again, stroking the fair skin. "Where did you get that idea?"

"You said Jesus a lot while we were making love."

He chuckled softly, fingering her nose. "I may be moved to say that and other holy vows when I'm inside you."

"No vows," she said firmly.

"Why not?" he said, tenderly pulling her towards him and kissing her.

She whispered to him after a kiss. "Then you wouldn't be able to repeat what you just did."

"You want a repeat," he murmured in her mouth.

"Most definitely," she said as she kissed him again, rolling him onto his back.


	7. Camembert, everywhere

They lay side by side under the covers, staring at the ceiling. His arm was flung out across her chest, lazily fingering the soft skin.

"Did you love him?"

The words had blurted from his tongue before he could comprehend he had uttered them, and the curling fist of jealousy that tightened his abdomen was something he did not expect. She was _his_ now, Kirill's, and the thought of someone else touching her made him want to slam the imaginary guy's head into a wall, over and over. He ran that thought across his head, and a delicious feeling began to spread throughout his gut.

"I did," she said.

He sucked in a breath and held it. _She had loved someone else._ He thought of his favourite tools from his early KGB torture kit. Death was an art form in Russia. There was the glove. He could use that. Hand saw. Too obvious. Too boring. The mask. _Perfect._

"But I loved myself more."

She turned to face him, sighing, using her elbow to prop her head up. "Are you alright, Kirill?" she said anxiously.

Oh, shit. He was still thinking violent thoughts. He looked at her, running a finger down her nose, lips and chin. His features softened.

"I'm fine."

"You looked- calmly murderous."

He smiled lazily. "Just thinking of ways I could torture your ex-boyfriend."

"Oh, he was big," she said quickly. "Not someone you'd want to mess with."

Kirill almost laughed, but he didn't. Instead he cocked an eyebrow up, as if offended. "I'm used to handling big guys."

"Oh yes," she said. "That's right. You're a _policeman_."

"That's right," he drawled. "Though you haven't got to see me in uniform yet."

"I like you better with the uniform off."

He smirked. "I can see that."

He stroked her face again, and kissed her. The kiss became hungry, urgent, and they made love again. This time she fell asleep, her mouth curved into a blissful smile as he held her in his arms, caressing the soft flesh and planting gentle kisses along her perfect shoulders.

He sighed. He knew this was irrational, unreasonable.

He hadn't given it a second thought when he first met her, but now, things were different. She was different. He didn't want to let her go.

He couldn't keep a woman with him. And he had no right to ask her to stay. She had a home, and he had a job.

His brow creased. He was not used to thinking these thoughts. He'd never had to worry about somebody else before. It was always just him. Alone. It had been that way for so long he had gotten used to it. There was no mess. There were no…complications.

He laid his head back on the pillow.

He would sort it out. They still had a few more days.

He watched her sleep, his arm protectively around her, and the contact made his mind inevitably drifted to better things.

Like this morning.

A smile shot across his face.

There was one pool in the bed and breakfast. It was indoor, heated, and really too small to even contemplate serious exercise in. But he thought he'd use it. He didn't want to admit, but after all those buttery croissants, he was getting the teensiest bit fat.

She was sleeping so peacefully. He didn't want to wake her. They'd kept at it all night as well, and he felt a little guilty about that. Not like it was one sided or anything. She'd purred and kissed and cuddled up next to him, and he really couldn't stop himself. After a whole week of agonised waiting, his libido had come out raging like a big bad bull.

He slipped out of the bed, threw some shorts on, and took a towel from the room. Taking one last look at her, he crept out quietly.

He didn't see anybody as he walked around. The pool was located at the back of the building, where it had a decent amount of privacy.

And the water felt divine.

He did a few half-hearted laps. Then he picked up the pace. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…

"So this is where you got to."

He stopped and shook the water from his face. His right arm splashed, then dumbly floating onto the surface.

She was looking at him amusedly, her eyes still half asleep. She gave a little yawn.

"Mind if I join you?" she said.

He shook his head.

And then she took off the towel.

She didn't have anything else on.

She was going to be the death of him.

"Are you crazy?" he said as he made his way over to her. "Someone could see you."

She sat by the side of the pool. The towel she placed carefully beside her.

"There's no one else here," she said as she dipped her toes inside. "Unless you count the landlady. The last couple was checking out as I came down."

She must have been totally aware he was completely eyeballing her. I mean, she had to be, her tits were dangling, and those gorgeous legs of her's were stretched out, leading to…

She finally got in with a splash.

"Ugh!" she said as she surfaced, her long hair dripping wet. She swam the little distance there was to him.

"Aren't you going to wish me good morning?" she said as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Hell and damnation.

He kissed her, his body coming alive against her's.

"Jesus…"

He pinned her to the wall of the pool. His hands were everywhere. She was making tiny moans every now and then and he was getting so fucking horny, for about the tenth time in the past twelve hours.

Then he felt her tug down his boxers. That was when he froze, and instinctively put a hand over her's to stop what she was doing.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "What's wrong?"

 _What_ _was_ _wrong?_

He was feeling- his cheeks were actually _burning._

"We-" he started, and then swallowed. "We're not- actually- going to do this _here,_ right?"

"Well, why not?" she said simply.

"It's just…"

His voice trailed off.

Heaven help him.

"Kirill, are you blushing?"

He looked at her indignantly. "I don't blush."

"Well, you are."

He was about to contradict her again, but her hands were now skittering across his chest and making his breath come out in hard ragged pants.

"If you don't feel comfortable, it's okay," she said as she leaned forward to whisper into his ear, her breasts pressed up against him. "But I am very horny right now and I'd like you to do me right here in this pool."

He'd pulled the boxers off himself and gotten into her immediately.

He smiled as he reminisced.

It had been sweet, but oh so _hot._

They'd pulled apart from each other with sheepish grins, thrown on oversized robes they found near the sauna and traipsed back to their room, passing the suspicious landlady at the front desk.

And then there was the shower.

There was only one, and they were both wet, so it made sense to use it together.

They'd shampooed each another's hair, and then taken the time to wash one another. Except by the time she was soaping him up with the sponge, he was starting to feel randy again.

After she'd made sure she cleaned every part of him, she'd kissed him, a lingering kiss, before moving downwards. He closed his eyes as she worked her way south.

"I said I'd return the favour, right?" she said huskily against his torso.

Kirill couldn't think. She could do whatever she damned wanted to, and it didn't matter.

Her mouth was like heaven on him.

He gave out a long, satisfied moan.

Her lips felt incredible, and then her tongue…

He was gasping for breath in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

He reached for her and propped her up against the glass. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

His thrusts were hard, urgent. It didn't take her long, and after she cried out her release he let himself go with a groan, both their voices echoing off the glass walls.

He held her against him for minutes, letting the water run down one side of his shoulder. Her legs slipped back down to the ground.

He'd kissed her when it was done, and the kiss had been long, and full of promises.

"The shower definitely smells of camembert now," she remarked with a grin, her arms still around his neck.

He nuzzled her shoulder, and then kissed her.

"It'll smell of more camembert in a minute."

Kirill made a little sound of contentment as he remembered.

She murmured in her sleep.

He kissed her brow and stroked her hair, thinking.

It wasn't just the sex, either, he thought, though the sexual chemistry itself was…awesome. He lacked a word to define it. Usually he'd get bored after a night or two. He had no trouble leaving, and it didn't matter how good looking they were. Yet he could not help but cling to her like honey.

They spent the rest of the day driving through the vineyards, wine tasting, and then he'd helped her pick out postcards. They ate out, and they'd spent some of the night watching a French soap opera, which he'd translated.

He didn't know what it was.

He felt _content_ with her. Sitting next to her in the car, watching her face light up as she changed the shift stick because she now knew how to. Strolling through the town hand in hand, walking in any direction they felt like walking in. Watching television together. In bed together. Just being with her was enough.

 _You know what it is_ , the dry voice in his head said. _But assassins don't fall in love._

No, he thought with a frown as he fell asleep.

Of course they didn't.


	8. Those three words

Michelle awoke with Kirill's lips on her nipple. They'd arrived back in Paris mid afternoon and slept in her hotel room.

His eyes followed her's, lazy and half awake.

She liked him when he was like this. His movements were languid, sleepy, and his hands were less controlled. He trailed up to kiss her lips, and then caressed her back, nuzzling her neck. As the moments wore on he became stiffer, his movements more hurried. He tried to pull her urgently towards him, to connect their bodies, but she had other ideas.

She turned around and stretched like a cat.

"This way."

He rolled over and sat up.

"Are you sure?" he said throatily. He didn't know why he was asking permission, when she was on her hands and knees in front of him, but it felt right to ask. He didn't want to use her. This was the way he'd taken countless of women, so he couldn't see their faces. This was different. She was giving him something, and he wasn't just going to take.

She turned her neck around.

"Da," she said huskily, looking at him. Her eyes were stormy.

He got into her slowly, making sure she could feel it. She whimpered.

"It's alright?" he said anxiously.

"It feels- so wonderful, so wonderful, Kirill."

He started to move slowly, leaning forward to place a kiss on her lobe.

" _Ya tebya lyublu,"_ he whispered.

"I told you my Russian sucks," she murmured.

"Nevermind," he said softly as he thrust deeply into her.

She whimpered again.

He couldn't take it.

He thrust harder, faster as she mewled and cried out his name.

"More, Kirill," she pled.

He groaned and let himself see red.

It was glorious. Fully glorious. He didn't know how many moments he'd spent in ecstasy before he roared and came furiously.

They collapsed on the bed afterwards, spent.

"Fuck," she said when she had gotten her breath back. "That was fucking _hot."_

He was still coming down from his severely powerful climax.

" _Da_ ," he rasped.

She snuggled up against him and burrowed her nose into his neck.

"Don't do that," he said in a strangled voice. "I don't have the energy for another round just yet."

She grinned. "But baby, you're so _hot."_

He was about to jump on her then. Instead, he took her hands and kissed one. Then he willed himself to glance at the clock on the bedside table. They'd slept for two hours.

"Where should we go for dinner?" he asked, getting up and stretching. He felt bloody wonderful.

She creased a brow and stayed silent awhile.

"Let's not waste money," she said. "We can cook again."

Kirill froze at the word 'cook'.

"Money's not an issue," he said, a bit more tersely than he wished.

Michelle looked at him and sighed. "Kirill, you've been very generous to me, and I feel a little bad. I don't know what the pay is like for a policeman in Moscow, but in Australia…it's okay, but it's not great. So please. I get the vibe that you're a spender, but you really need to know when to tighten your belt."

He nodded slowly; trying not to flash around the big fat guilty sign he felt was waving above his head.

This trip hadn't even made a dent in the pay Gretkov had given him. There was about three mill in cash stowed under his bed, and unlimited funds if he wished, right at his fingertips. Here she was being so damn considerate, and all he was doing was feeding her lies.

"We don't get paid that badly, you know," he said casually.

She just gave him a look.

"Let's just cook."

His insides started playing a march of doom.

"Alright."

He tried to be as enthusiastic as she was when they visited the markets. She was in her element. Mint excited her. Asparagus made her eyes light up. Finding the perfect coriander bunch made her gabble away as if she'd found gold.

He carried the bags as she skipped her way to the room.

And here he was again. In front of the stove, with the simmering pot.

Jesus.

If only cooking were as easy as firing a gun.

God. There had to be something wrong with him if murder was one of the easiest chores he could muster in his mind.

Thankfully, she didn't visit the shower this time. He turned off the dial gingerly when she told him to, and transferred the pot to another hob. He felt a tremendous surge of accomplishment.

And then came the onions.

"I can- help," he said awkwardly.

"Forget it," she said, chopping up the onions quickly. "You stay on the couch. Don't even _think_ of getting up."

He meekly did what she asked.

Michelle watched as Kirill made his way to the sofa and sat, flicking through the channels on the remote.

He was a hard kind of guy, but he was also kind of gooey. He was adorable. She almost-

No. She couldn't say that. She couldn't even think it.

The day after tomorrow after tomorrow after tomorrow, she would be leaving. He would stay on, or go back to Russia. This would end.

She didn't want to bring up the subject. She didn't want to spoil what they were having. It was magical, and she didn't want the dream to stop.

Her eyes softened, and teared a little.

She blamed the onions.

In the later part of the evening they hit a piano bar at one of the nearby hotels.

Michelle lazily leaned back into Kirill's arms at the bar. They listened to the pianist play on the grand.

"Is he any good?" Kirill said as he combed his fingers through her hair.

"It's not a good idea to ask me that," she said. "I can be brutal."

Kirill chuckled.

"At least you won't need to slap anybody tonight," he said as he threaded through the thick locks.

She leaned back against his chest and sighed. "Just don't go to the bathroom."

He chuckled. "What if I really really need to take a piss?"

"I will handcuff myself to you."

"That sounds- promising."

She looked over her shoulder and grinned. "Do you have a set?"

"Of handcuffs?"

"Mm-hm." She nuzzled her nose against the little V in his shirt.

He swallowed. "Of course. All policemen carry handcuffs."

She laughed. "That's probably a little too kinky for me actually. I'm not the Fifty Shades of Grey type."

"I do not understand the reference."

"Fifty Shades of Grey. The gratuitous mummy porn book slash film."

He shook his head.

She sighed. "It's probably better you don't know."

Fifteen minutes later the pianist retired. He walked towards the bar and slumped over it, waving down the bartender. He saw Michelle, and gave her an enormous grin. Kirill bristled.

"Hello, little lady," he said appreciatively.

"Good evening," she replied in a friendly enough manner.

"I trust the music was to your enjoyment?" he said in a smarmy voice.

Kirill almost scoffed.

"And you as well sir?" The pianist cocked his brow belligerently.

"The lady is an accomplished pianist herself," Kirill said stonily.

The sleazy look on his face vanished, and an air of delight overtook his features.

"Well then you must play something!" he said animatedly.

Michelle gave Kirill a small glare.

She turned back to the pianist with a smooth smile. "I fear my partner exaggerates," she said. "He always likes to make me sound good."

"She's a classically trained musician," Kirill supplied in a monotone voice. "She plays Rachmaninoff," he added casually.

The pianist's eyes bugged. "Well then, I must insist, miss. No time to be shy, go on, go on. Please do me the honour. You cannot refuse."

"If I must," she said wanly.

She stepped towards the piano at his insistent gesticulations, and sat down.

The tune started out as a single haunting melody. But what started out as simple soon developed into a complex meld of rhythm and harmony, until the whole became a stormy, passionate emulsion of sound. And then it came back to that single, sad, beautiful voice again, higher and higher, then lower, slower and softer.

There was silence. Then a smattering of applause. It broke into a maelstrom. A woman wiped a tear from her eye.

The pianist clapped madly and boomed 'Brava!' at the top of his lungs.

And there was Kirill.

He just had to look at her, and it was enough. She stepped forward to him as his eyes glowed with pride.

"Beautiful," he said as he kissed her brow.

"Thanks," she whispered. "I'm glad you liked it."

The bartender gave her a nod and handed her a wine glass, his face beaming. "On the house, mademoiselle."

She took it with a smile. "Thank you."

They sat in companionable silence until she finished her drink. He resumed stroking her hair, breathing in her scent.

"Tell me about the creep," he said softly.

"What creep?"

"The creep you were with for seven years."

Michelle fell quiet. It was funny, because even though he'd hurt her, she'd still thought of him, often. She wondered what he was doing, whether it would be possible to catch up. But she'd not thought of him for days.

"He was- you know," she started. "Tall, dark, handsome. And a creep."

"What did he do?"

"He was a taxi driver."

Kirill was surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah. He kept saying he wanted to break into construction, but I really think he didn't want it that badly. He did not try very hard. He kept changing what he wanted to do. Which was fine," she said, "Because it's hard to know what you want to do sometimes. And it's hard work getting there. But after awhile, the excuses wore thin." Her jaw set. "He constantly said he was going to do things and he never did them."

"How did you meet?"

Michelle stiffened. "We met by chance."

Kirill tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Like us?"

"Like us," she whispered.

She didn't tell him that in her oblivious youthful twenties she'd looked at the circumstance of their meeting with stars in her eyes. That she thought the universe had aligned them to meet in such a way. That she'd embraced the notion with such joy and anticipation. And then he'd proceeded to hack her dreams to pieces and leave her feeling soulless and empty and emotionally inept and without a life.

She'd thought the universe had been cruel, a cruel, cruel bitch of a mother.

She knew Kirill was different. He treated her differently; he made love to her differently. But her intuition told her he was hiding something, and it ached, knowing that she didn't really know who he was.

"Why did you finally leave him?"

She inhaled sharply.

"I'm not sure," she said in a small voice. "I couldn't take it anymore, I suppose."

He turned her around gently, putting his strong hands on her arms.

"I think you left him because you finally figured out what you were worth," he said, his eyes boring into her's.

Her eyes widened, and her mouth trembled.

He continued. "You're worth more than diamonds, princess. More than gold. He was a fool not to see that. I'm not a fool."

He kissed her. She returned it naturally, her body leaning in to smell his scent; musk, sandalwood, Kirill.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered in her ear.

She nodded. They went back to the Citadines. She packed a few clothes and a knapsack of toiletries and her important things, and they headed up river to the Westin.

It was different, that night.

He entered her slowly, and moved so slowly, slowly, his eyes never leaving her's. She moaned and asked him to go faster, but he only kissed her and continued his relentlessly slow movements. He shuddered uncontrollably at his release, and she came with him, keening beneath his body with soft whimpers, her own body shaking.

When it was done, they simply held one another.

"I love you," he whispered in English.

She was already asleep.


	9. The turn of the tide

In the stillness of the early morning, Kirill awoke. The light filtered in through the filmy curtain. He had forgotten to draw it the whole way across the night before. He'd been…preoccupied.

He glanced sleepy eyes over at her. She was sleeping on her side, a smile across her face. She was beautiful.

And she was his.

He stayed for some minutes, just looking at her. Then he reluctantly moved away from the bed, and stepped into the bathroom. He went straight for the shower. As the water poured down his face and back, he thought.

It was simple. He'd go back to Moscow. He'd tie up some loose ends. Then he'd emigrate.

He scrubbed his teeth and rinsed.

It wouldn't be too hard, he thought. He'd settle down. Australia was multicultural. He'd blend in. There should be plenty of jobs in security, and with his skill set it wouldn't be very difficult to-

"Morning."

Her sleepy voice echoed off the tile.

"Morning, princess," he said. "Are you going to join me?"

He heard her chuckle. "That shower is not big enough for two."

"I can make room," he purred.

"It's alright, baby," she said giggling. "I'll wait my turn."

He was disappointed, but she was probably right. He heard her brushing her teeth.

He finished up, and was patting himself dry when the shower curtain was yanked apart. She was there, and she didn't have any clothes on.

She stepped in and kissed him. He returned it amorously.

And then she pushed him out.

"I'll meet you on the bed in fifteen minutes," she said with a lazy grin. She flicked on the water.

Kirill grumbled as he closed the bathroom door, snatching a smaller towel from the rack on his way out and wrapping the big one around his waist. He was already semi-hard, and it was going to-

He froze.

A familiar figure was standing in the lounge of the suite. A figure he definitely did not want to see right now.

He studied the man, and then flecked the small towel over his hair.

"What are you doing here?" he asked coldly in Russian.

The man, who was tall, with blonde, almost white hair, remained stoically rooted to the ground. He replied back in Russian.

"Gretkov wants to see you."

Kirill continued to dry his hair. "I'm on vacation. My month is not over."

"He wants to see you now," the other man said firmly. "You're to take the next plane to Berlin. Pack your bags."

Kirill looked up, his nostrils flaring. "This is bullshit, Vadim."

"I don't care if it is or isn't. You're getting on that plane, and I'm going to make sure you do."

"Let me get organised, then."

Despite his calm exterior, Kirill's insides were panicking. He didn't see that he had much of a choice. He was just hoping Vadim would go away, and that would hopefully give him time to explain something satisfactorily to Michelle- and then he could sort out whatever it is he needed to. _Bloody Gretkov!_ He thought. Of all the times, of all the places…

Vadim nodded. "I'll wait for you outside. Half an hour, Kirill."

"What's going on?"

Vadim stiffened, and reached a hand towards his holster. He stopped when Michelle appeared in the doorway, dressed in an oversized Tshirt, her hair wrapped in a towel.

"Who's this?" he asked in Russian.

Kirill's jaw tightened. He bit into his cheek.

"It's no one," he said, his voice feigning complete apathy. "I slept with her, that's all."

Vadim relaxed his arm. "Tell her to go."

Kirill nodded.

It wasn't how he wanted to say goodbye, but it was imperative she left, and left now.

"Kirill?" Michelle's voice was anxious.

He moved towards her but did not touch her. "You have to go. I haven't time to explain." He knew Vadim didn't speak English, but any prolonged conversation would make him suspicious.

"Kirill, what's going on? Who is he?" She flicked her eyes across to the bigger man.

"Please, just go." Kirill said, his voice cold and eyes pleading. "I will contact you. I will find you. Just go."

She looked at him for a second, then, nodding, she turned to leave.

" _Stoy."_ At the sound of the bigger man's voice, Michelle froze like a rat in a trap. Vadim spoke again. "Tell her to come here, Kirill."

Kirill's blood ran cold. "Why?

Vadim smiled coolly. "She knows your name."

" _Da._ So?"

"Don't tell me _so_ , Kirill. She doesn't look like one of your easy lays, either."

Vadim assessed him with a sneer.

"She comes with us."

* * *

Kirill stared out of the black limousine. They were somewhere in Berlin. His hand covered Michelle's, but he did not speak to her. He knew she was frightened, but speaking to her would only let slip how much he cared, and he could not put her in a more dangerous position than she was. Three goons sat around the limo alongside Vadim, and he knew at least one of them spoke some English.

Vadim did not leave them alone in the hotel room. He barely had time to pack and throw something on, and he'd instructed Michelle to do the same. She'd been white faced, but she did what she had been told. They had sat in silence on the way to Charles de Gaulle, and on the plane. Vadim had escorted her to buy her ticket, his hand pressed a little too hard into her back. Michelle did not utter a sound, but her eyes looked at him the whole time, pleading.

His other hand clenched. _He had been such a fool_ , he thought.

 _Leverage._

She was leverage now. Gretkov could make him do whatever he wanted.

They pulled to a stop.

" _Vne,"_ Vadim said stoically.

Kirill looked at Michelle, then started to make his way to the door. She followed.

" _Niet."_

Vadim shook his head. One of the big goons blocked her way.

"She stays. Gretkov wants to see you alone."

Kirill glared at him fiercely.

"Touch her and I'll-"

"It's no use threatening me, Kirill. I have orders."

Kirill looked at Michelle. She was pale, but in control of herself. She had sat back down.

"I'll be back," he said tersely to her. That was all he could afford at this point. She nodded.

He climbed out of the door. Vadim followed him.

"This way."

They were in the middle of the Karl Marx Allee. A sign hung from one of the big housing buildings. 'Tatra Motokov'. Gretkov liked to keep things discreet.

A car stood on the bend. It was black, nondescript.

As he reached the back door, the window rolled down. The face was lean, shrewd and bespectacled.

"A girl," he scoffed. "Getting sentimental, Kirill."

Kirill knew better than to take the bait. He stood silently, his face stoic, aloof.

"Your phone is off," Gretkov continued irritably. "What the hell is going on?"

He replied slowly, casually. As if he didn't give a fuck.

"You told me I had one month off."

Gretkov glared ever so slightly, his jaw set and eyes angry.

"You told me _Jason Bourne_ was dead."

Kirill was trained not to give away his emotions. He slowly turned his head, his chin dipping downwards, his eyes giving one pointed, incredulous look towards his employer.

"The girl I keep for insurance."

The window of the limousine rolled up, leaving Kirill fighting a blind panic that had suddenly coursed through his veins.

He heard the screech of tyres. The black limo was leaving. He launched himself towards the car, but was drawn back himself by a pair of strong hands.

"What the fuck-" he spat as he struggled. Something cool nudged up against his back.

"Don't make a scene," Vadim said, his face stern. "Or we shoot you, then we shoot her."

Kirill became still. His eyes were menacing. The car pulled out and headed down the road.

And he could do nothing.

He watched helplessly as the car drove off, wanting to run after it until his feet bled. All he could do was stare and memorise the license plate.

Vadim spoke again. "Cooperate, and she will be let go."

"If they lay one finger on her-"

"She will be looked after."

Vadim's tone was blank, unreadable.

He knew what that meant. He'd said the same thing to several people several times over.


	10. Assassin v Assassin

Dread.

His insides were choking with it.

He didn't notice that Vadim had pulled the gun away from his back. That he'd slunk into Gretkov's car, which had vanished quickly away from the kerb.

 _He had to get her back._

A car beeped loudly at him.

He stumbled blindly to the other side of the road while the man rolled his window down and cursed loudly at him in German. He didn't hear.

 _He had to get her back._

"Hey!"

He'd banged into a passer-by. It was a rather large woman, who was now looking at him, her flabby face red and irritated.

"Hey! Don't just walk away, dickhead!"

Her protests drew a small, interested crowd.

"Entschuldigung," he mumbled as he strode away.

He watched where he was going from then on.

 _You're no good to her like this,_ he thought harshly. _Pull yourself together_.

He kept walking while he punched in a few buttons on his phone.

"Code," a prompt female voice sounded.

"07871193."

There was a short pause.

"Agent Ivanovich. How can I help you?"

"I need a GPS track."

"Number?"

He gave the number.

Pause.

"The plate is registered to Yuri Gretkov, Agent Ivanovich."

"I know that."

Another pause.

"It may not be wise-"

"Just do it."

"Case?"

"Suspected kidnapping. Australian tourist."

"It would be best to leave this to the Australian embassy."

Kirill growled. "Do I have to get your superior?"

The female on the other end swallowed. "No, sir."

"Then do as I ask."

She swallowed.

"I can't track the car, Agent Ivanovich."

"Why not?" he barked.

"Orders, sir. Gretkov's vehicles are not trackable."

He fumed. "Find me all properties owned by Gretkov in Berlin."

"There are several."

"Warehouses."

Pause.

"There are four."

"Good. Give me the addresses."

She complied.

"You know I'll have to report this," she said a tad ruefully.

"I know," he said curtly as he hung up.

The warehouses were his best bet. They were out of the normal way of things. Large. Quiet. There wasn't going to be anybody around to pry or hear anything they shouldn't.

Not that it would get that far, he thought.

It wouldn't get that far.

He walked quicker anyway, and hailed a cab close to the Alexanderplatz.

The first one was empty. So was the next.

The third was on the east side of Berlin.

A familiar black limo was parked at the front.

He gave the taxi driver a few more notes and told him to wait.

When he turned the corner he drew the Walther from his holster, and attached a silencer to the end of it. Then he crept stealthily to the entrance.

There was no one outside. The floor was empty. A two storey modular office lay on the far side.

The top level's blinds were not drawn. He could see Vadim, and, behind the desk, tied to a chair, was Michelle. Her mouth was taped closed.

Kirill's jaw clenched. His blood boiled.

He sidled along the edge of the warehouse floor. He stopped just outside the door on the ground level. He could hear voices; two men. A shadow moved behind the blind. One of the men was moving towards the door. Kirill waited.

The man didn't even know he'd been shot. His body fell dumbly back into the office with a thud, his mouth gaping wide in a weird position. He opened the door. Two more shots. The other man went down just as fast.

Kirill checked the inside. Then he bolted upstairs. He knew Vadim must have heard the noise.

Vadim was ready for him, but he was quicker. The blonde fell to the floor backwards. His arms sprawled haphazardly beside him.

"Too slow, Vadim."

Kirill pocketed the pistol and came anxiously towards her. He unbound her- they'd used rope, and the knot was basic. He shook his head. Vadim must've been quite confident she would not make any attempt to escape.

He threw the rope onto the floor and looked at her.

Her eyes stared in horror. At him. Then the man on the floor.

When he gently peeled the duct tape off, she didn't speak, or cry out. He cupped her chin. She shook it away, her eyes fixated on the body.

"Did they touch you?"

She shook her head.

"Did they hurt you?"

Another shake.

Kirill give a sigh of relief.

Blood was dripping from the dead man's forehead. The bullet sat in a neat hole, embedded in the centre.

Michelle's head fell forward, and she retched.

Kirill found her knapsack nearby. He searched it for tissues. She retched a few more times. He found them and brought them to her hands. Her fingers took them without acknowledging him. Tears had started to form in her eyes.

"We have to go," he said gently.

A tear fell down a cheek. She continued to stare at the dead man.

He took a tissue from her hand and wiped the tear carefully. Then he cleaned around her mouth.

"We have to go," he repeated.

Somehow, he managed to get her to stand, to walk to the street where he sat her in the back of the cab. The driver looked at them strangely in the rear view mirror, but to his credit, said nothing.

They reached the Tegel airport without incident. Kirill gently got her out and walked her in. She looked like she was going to throw up.

He handed her the knapsack.

"Everything is still there- passport, wallet, phone, camera. Your clothes that you packed last night. I'm sorry about the things in the hotel. You can't go back."

She took it, glaring at him.

"Who are you?" She almost hissed the words out. Her eyes were angry, hurt.

A flicker of pain crossed his face. He wiped it away.

"FSB. I took a contract job. It went to the shit. Now I have to clean it up."

"Here."

He'd shoved a wad of euros into her hand. "Get yourself on a plane home."

"I don't- need your money…" she started to say indignantly, flicking through the paper, her eyes incredulous. "This is more than a plane ride."

Her eyes narrowed and her mouth grew tight.

"Is this hush money?" she said accusingly.

"No. Keep it. I won't take it back. Give the balance to the homeless, if you really want to. Just get a plane home. Now."

"What will happen to you?" she finally asked.

"Don't worry about me."

Her eyes looked worried.

"I'll find you," he said, whispered.

"How will you?" she said in a doubtful voice.

"I just will. I will see you again. Now go."

She fumbled as she stashed the money away in the knapsack he had given her, and started to walk towards a counter.

"I'm sorry."

He wasn't used to saying those words, and even when he said them they sounded insufficient.

She looked at him with a steely gaze. "I'm not."

Then she turned around and kept walking.

* * *

The office was cool and dim.

Yuri Gretkov sat at his desk, scribbling. His brow was furrowed. The clicking sound startled him momentarily.

"Ah. I should have known."

Kirill pressed the gun in harder.

"I'll finish the job," he said coldly. "But you leave the girl out of it."

Gretkov drummed his fingers on the table. He was seemingly oblivious to the fact he had a gun to his head.

"Done," he said. "But screw up again, and we go after her."

"That won't happen."

Kirill retracted the pistol back to its holster.

"I've never seen you like this Kirill."

Yuri's voice was amused. He casually laid one leg over the other.

"It's good to know something can make you crack."

Kirill glared at him. He was about to leave, when he heard the man call his name.

Gretkov swivelled around in his comfortable seat and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"You better do this. Or I'll do things to her that'll make your stomach bleed."

The pallor on Kirill's face was not visible in the darkness. Then he vanished out of the room like a ghost, leaving the bespectacled man sitting alone.

* * *

A black Audi stood parked in a dingy looking parking garage. The leather still smelled new. Kirill reached into the glove box and loaded his pistol. He placed the siren atop the car. Then he pulled out of the garage and onto the streets of Moscow.

He was here. FSB had picked it up. They hadn't reprimanded him yet for getting on the wrong side with Gretkov, and he wasn't going to remind them. His thoughts were focussed on one thing.

Bourne.

That son of a bitch.

 _How did he survive?_

The question blared in his head as he drove, his fists clenched.

 _How could someone survive a shot to the head?_

Nobody, he told himself. He must either be a god, or had a head made of fucking titanium.

His phone rang next to him.

He picked it up.

"Da," he said.

They'd found him.

He swerved recklessly around and drove furiously.

He was going to find this son of a bitch with a head of titanium, who'd put _her_ life in jeopardy, and put a bullet in his heart.

He'd never hated anyone this much. It had never been personal. He killed, he forgot, and he was done. Except for his stepfather, of course. When he had watched his stepfather stab his mother with a kitchen knife.

His hands tightened around the wheel.

And then he saw him.

He almost disbelieved his eyes.

He was walking in plain sight, by the river.

He was limping.

Kirill pulled the car over immediately.

He fumbled with the handgun. It was a difficult shot, with that gun, from where he stood, but he was too angry to think. He was going to get that sonofa-

The shot was wide.

He swore.

Bourne staggered to one side.

And then he heard the sirens.

Damn. The _politsiya._

He put his hands up as a gesture of well meaning. He shouted he was Secret Service.

"Gun down!" they kept shouting with their guns fearfully pointed at him. "Gun down!"

He put the gun down to appease them.

They weren't appeased.

He growled as he let them cuff him.

"I'm Secret Service!" he snarled. He looked over at the footpath.

Bourne was gone.

 _Fucking dumb shits_ , he thought, seething.

One of them must have grabbed his identification card from his pocket. He was talking to the others now, and their voices were hushed.

"We better let him go," the more senior of them said to the rest. He looked nervous. "Uncuff him."

They uncuffed him.

"Happy?" he snapped as he snatched his ID from the one who had it.

He took off down the footpath, leaving the police milling about in confusion as he grumbled quietly. He had _had_ him!

He followed the bend. It came out to the main street.

He could smell him.

The thrill of the chase overtook him. His blood pumped hard through his veins, the adrenalin surging.

These were the moments he enjoyed best in his job. The moment before he caught his quarry. It gave him a rush, a rise of energy that burst through his veins.

He was almost an animal. He wasn't Kirill anymore.

He was a predator. All senses.

Sight, sound, and smell.

 _The underground pass_ , his mind thought automatically.

He made his way down the stairs, coolly pocketing his pistol.

His senses howled in triumph.

He'd been this way.

Excited, he walked through the crowd, seemingly oblivious of the people he bumped into.

He came out to another street, opposite a supermarket. People were exiting the building, voices crying out in alarm.

His eyes narrowed as he smirked and made his way there, jumping over a barrier without effort instead of walking around it.

He stepped into the mart, looking around curiously.

Then he saw the blood trail.

He almost bared his teeth into a grin.

He was close now.

So close.

The screech of tyres drew his attention. He drew out his gun, alarmed, and dashed out. Two policemen lay face down on the concrete. He saw a taxi leave, the forlorn driver standing by the side of the road. Two police cars squealed after it.

 _Fuck._

A woman sat stalled in a black Mercedes, watching the goings on. It was a G-Class, he observed. Robust. What he needed. He picked up a fallen policeman's radio and made his way towards it, waving his gun around.

"Ex machine, ex machine!"

He'd said the words curtly. She was scared of him. His animal side felt no remorse. He pushed her aside and got into the car. He had to get him. He had to end this.

He slammed his gun against the seat next to him and sped off down the road.

He listened to the radio carefully. Two cars already down. Bourne was still going. He heard a policeman radio for help from FSB. He stepped down on the accelerator.

 _He was going to get him first_ , he snarled. _Bourne was his!_

He drove up another street, intending to cut him off. Two police cars feebly followed Bourne, and he knew they wouldn't have any luck.

Kirill had a bad habit of playing with his food. This case was no different. He couldn't resist the temptation.

He bared his teeth and crossed the divider.

The four wheel drive clipped the side of the little cab, sending it sprawling.

 _Take that, bastard_ , he grinned.

He drove into a side lane. They were driving parallel now, on opposite sides of the river. A bridge lay ahead.

A tram stopped in front.

Bourne swerved recklessly around it. The police car behind him smashed into it. Kirill skidded neatly over the bridge and pulled to a halt on the other side of the tram car.

There was a moment their eyes met.

Bourne's eyes were wide, like he had just realised something for the first time.

And then the moment was gone.

Bourne sped his car forwards. Kirill had to reverse and turn around, and by the time he was in pursuit, the two FSB cars were in front of him.

There was a freeway ahead of them.

Bourne drove headfirst into the traffic.

Kirill stared in disbelief.

The man was fucking suicidal.

He was a maniac.

 _Turn back,_ a voice in his head urged him. _Turn back._

The animal inside him pressed the accelerator, turning into the freeway. The two other FSB vehicles had been snapped up in the tide of cars.

 _You'll die here_ , the voice insisted. _Think of her._

He hesitated one moment.

 _She'll die if I don't do this,_ he thought back. _I have to get him_.

He drove into the tunnel.

It was like a cat and mouse game, and after awhile, he was not sure who was who.

They drove in pursuit or elusion, unconscious of the cars that unluckily came between them.

He thought he'd had him.

He'd had the cab jammed up against the wall. He shot at him. Bourne ducked his head down.

Bourne had wriggled the car out somehow. In a flash, a second, the body of the cab was in front of the Merc, and Bourne was shooting at his tyres. Then the Merc was in front, the yellow cab pushing it forward.

The glass from both their vehicles was gone.

They aimed their guns at each other.

He saw the divider too late.


	11. Landy

Hospital.

That's all he could register when his eyes opened, seeing white. A white ceiling, a white aproned nurse, white sheets, white curtain.

The nurse had asked him a question.

His consciousness blurred, his voice thick, slow, slurred.

He slipped back into dreams.

 _Soft sheets…black hair…red dress…candlelight…jasmine…_

 _Michelle._

He breathed, and the breath was deep and slow. He was back in bed, next to her- lying in her arms, where he was meant to be. Everything was alright.

And then he coughed, and couldn't stop.

The nurse drew back the curtain again. A sting went into his arm.

Blackness overtook him.

He couldn't recall how long he lay there.

Time blurred.

Day and night merged together.

He spent the time in a delirious haze, neither fully sleeping nor waking.

And when he dreamt, if he was really dreaming, the dreams seemed real.

He sat with his mother, in the two-room house, by the fireplace, both of them rubbing their hands together. He was freezing, and she beckoned him onto her lap. He crawled there, into her embrace, and she murmured stories into his ear, about Ivan Tsarevitch and the Grey Wolf, and the sound of her voice made him sleepy and no longer cold.

He played with Nika in the concrete alley with a chewed up tennis ball. They had found it by the fence one day. A dog had decided it did not want it. He would throw the ball, and her face lit up with joy, her long brown hair whipping back as she ran after it.

And there was Michelle.

Laughing as she held his hand. Walking the cobblestoned streets of Paris.

Her body under his. Her skin soft. Her brown eyes looking at him with love.

And then Gretkov's voice.

The shot of a gun. Her body lying dead on the floor.

He would awake terribly in moments like these, like a fish out of water. Gasping, his body covered in sweat, his entire being in panic.

And then the nurses would come, and it would be blackness again.

The dreams again.

Sometimes he imagined a ghost through the curtain, but he could not be sure. He was too weak to fend for himself, and if it were not for the thought of her, he would not give a fuck. He would lie back without fighting, close his eyes and pray for the first time since he was a child that the afterlife was better than the life he'd lived. He'd welcome death with open arms.

He _had_ to survive.

God knows what would happen to her if he didn't.

* * *

He awoke fully conscious.

Everything seemed strange.

He tried to move.

Then he shut his eyes.

 _The pain._

His head felt cracked open.

He touched his skull to find it shaved, except for patches. He felt it over, wincing as he did so.

He opened his eyes again.

It was bright. The curtain around him was drawn. A breeze blew in beside him from the window. No one was around.

There was a noise outside the window- it was slight, but it made him stiffen automatically.

"Ah- finally."

Kirill tried to move his neck around. He only managed a small turn.

There was a short man standing by the side of his bed. He was dressed neatly in white. He carried a clipboard and a pen.

Kirill tried to sit up. He couldn't.

"You remember the accident?" the man said over his spectacles.

"Da," he rasped out.

The man, who was a doctor, nodded. "Very good, then."

He scribbled on his board.

"How long have I been here?" Kirill asked.

The man kept scribbling.

"How long?" he persisted.

The man looked up from his notes. "Six months."

 _Six months!_

"At first we were afraid you would not wake," the doctor said, staring at him intensely. "You suffered a severe concussion. Kept falling in and out of consciousness. Mostly out. But you found the will to come back, it seems."

Kirill stared.

The little man paused. "You punctured a lung. Cracked half your ribs."

 _No wonder he couldn't sit up._

"Very fortunately, your spinal cord seems intact," he said as he bobbed his head from side to side. "But I will have to take more x rays."

"I have to get out of here now," he insisted.

The doctor laughed. "I am afraid, young man, that you are not going anywhere for a little while."

* * *

The doctor was right.

Kirill found he could barely move. His legs had no strength.

His arms were no better.

He couldn't even feed himself.

This was normal, the doctor told him. His body had shut down for a while. It had to relearn how to do things.

 _Like hell_ , he thought, scowling, as he attempted to lift the spoon to his lips. It spilt onto his lap.

He gave up and let the nurse do it.

There was a woman who came in periodically for his psychological assessment.

He hated her.

She was large and dumpy, with short dark brown hair. She perspired like crazy, even in the cold. He had a feeling she was interested in him, in a very non-professional/client way.

She would sit by him much too closely. Lean forward with a concerned look in her eye. The smell of her armpits would fill his nostrils during these unfortunate sessions.

And she would ask him questions very slowly. Incessant questions.

Did he have trouble _remembering things._

Could he tell her about the accident.

Did he feel _distressed_ talking about it.

Did he feel any _anxiety._

Did he feel _suicidal._

He would sit there with what he hoped was a permanent frown on his face, and answer in as curt a manner as possible.

No, he was fine.

He was absolutely fine.

No, he did not want to talk about the accident.

Was he sure? The woman would ask eagerly. It would be good to talk about it. He had to talk about it, to begin the healing process.

One day he lost his temper. His strength had recovered slightly by then, in his arms anyway.

He threw his food tray at her head.

They cuffed him to the bed after that.

* * *

One morning he awoke to find his bed surrounded by people.

They were all wearing suits.

A blond woman stood before him. Her hair was immaculately coiffed. Her lips were pursed.

"Do you know who I am?" she said.

His voice was rough from disuse, and the English came slowly to his tongue. "CIA. Most likely."

"Correct. I'm Pamela Landy, task chief officer."

The blond lady assessed the Russian. He wasn't much to look at, and she'd been disappointed when she first laid eyes on him. But then again, for someone who had been in a near fatal crash, it was a miracle he had come out alive.

"Why did you do it, Agent Ivanovich?"

He did not look at her. "You know why. It was my job."

"Not Bourne. That's easy to figure out. Why go after the tourist. Why risk your life?"

He looked at the white bedspread. "You know nothing about me."

"Apparently she meant something to you."

Pause.

"Yuri Gretkov has been arrested."

Kirill gave a small bark of laughter, which faded back into a cough that never seemed to end.

Pamela Landy frowned, a line appearing on her perfectly made up face. "I do not see what you find so amusing, Agent Ivanovich."

"That won't stop him," he rasped out.

"You mean getting the girl?"

When he did not speak, she continued.

"CIA wants you incarcerated for crimes against the state once you recover."

Again, silence.

"You have my word she will be safe. We are willing to- make generous allowances in your sentencing. Provided you do something for us."

"What is that?"

"Find Jason Bourne. Bring him in to us."

"How do I know she's not dead already?"

"We've been watching her, Kirill."

Kirill finally looked up into her eyes. They were frank eyes.

"How do I know that," he said uneasily.

She looked to the man next to her, a big man with a cone shaped head and dark hair.

The big man nodded.

He stooped to pick up the briefcase he had on the floor. He took out a slim laptop and set it on the bed. He typed in a few things.

A window came up on the screen.

Kirill let out a little sound.

It was her.

She was walking out of a train station. She looked like she was in a hurry. She stopped by a sushi store. He could hear her ordering a few rolls. Her voice was exactly like he remembered. Cool. Polished. Elegant. Her voice.

"We will continue to watch her if you cooperate."

He could not tear his eyes away. The big man pressed a few buttons. The screen went black. Kirill reluctantly tore his eyes away to look levelly at the blond woman. He blinked a few times, and took his time to respond.

"You are offering me amnesty in exchange for a cage."

"That's one way of looking at it."

She came over closer, to the side of his bed, and sat down.

"I'm offering protection. For her. For you. Don't you want that?"

He looked at her sceptically. "I failed to kill him. Twice. What makes you think I am a good candidate for the job?"

"I have faith in you."

Kirill's eyes startled slightly, and then narrowed. "Why do you people want him so badly? He is one man. One agent."

"He's where everything starts and ends. I can't fit all the pieces in the puzzle together without him."

Kirill regarded her a moment, then looked down.

"I will- think upon your proposition."

"Don't think too long."

She got up suddenly. She motioned to the others. They began shuffling away.

"And Kirill?"

Kirill put his head up slowly.

"It's a pretty good cage from where you're sitting."


	12. The other man's woman

Kirill put down the paper on the tiny table.

Nothing. Again.

He stared out the window that overlooked a row of unremarkable, shabby buildings. The sky was grey and threatened to pour.

The CIA had put him up in a god awful flat in the middle of New York City. It was supposed to look seedy, they said. He shouldn't be drawing attention.

He thought that was bullshit, and that the real reason was that their budgets had taken a severe cut. He noticed that Pamela Landy had worn the same suit all week.

Then again, things weren't looking so good for her either.

Noah Vosen, whom Landy referred to as 'the snake' rather than his real name, had cleverly turned the tables on her. She was in real shit now. He wasn't too sure how long she could keep protecting him, when she could barely protect her own behind.

"Can I get you a coffee?"

It was that girl again. Her voice was tentative, almost afraid.

"No thanks."

She went about her own business, hovering just in case he changed his mind.

He ignored her.

She was a quiet thing, like a piece of moving furniture. One that cleaned up his mess and looked up data when he occasionally asked for it.

He'd interrogated her eagerly for information when Landy first introduced them. She'd been the last person to see Bourne. She'd run with him. She may know his habits, his hiding places. Safe houses.

She'd been singularly unhelpful. He was the one making the decisions, she said. She didn't have much of a choice. She'd just followed. They stayed at budget motels. Places that didn't stand out. They never stayed in the same place twice. And then Bourne had told her she was better off without him. She'd been on the run, when Landy had taken her in. He'd lost interest in her after awhile. He couldn't even remember her name.

Progress was slow. So slow. He couldn't use any of his FSB resources. He only had his skills, and the girl. CIA was good, but they were inefficient compared to what he was used to. It took them ten people to do what one man could do in Moscow. By the time he got a piece of info, Bourne had been long gone.

They let him watch her sometimes.

It was mundane things, usually, and always when she was in public. Getting takeout from a store. Out in the city with friends. Once she'd run a red light. The look on her face had been priceless. He'd lived on it for days.

She'd been in the States once, to visit her brother. He'd watched the footage of her in a department store, shopping and laughing. Looking at her was both painful and elating. He was glad she was alive and healthy. He was even glad she looked happy. And he ached, knowing he was only watching.

He trudged back from a tiring day one evening. Another disappointing lead.

The light in the kitchen was on. That meant she was still up. Not that it mattered. They didn't bother each other, and they never interfered with each other's movements.

She was waiting for him.

"Had a good night?"

Her voice was casual.

He cocked up an eyebrow as he took off his jacket.

"Da," he said brusquely as he went to boil the kettle.

"Doesn't sound like you had a good night."

He filled the kettle and flicked the switch.

"What does it matter to you?"

She didn't back down.

"How long have you been on this- four, five months?"

She was wrong. It was closer to six.

"You're not going to find him."

"And why is that?" he snapped.

She tapped her nails against the head of the chair and waited before answering timidly.

"Because he's Bourne."

Kirill gave a small grunt of amusement. He'd hoped the conversation was over, but she was relentless.

"You should just leave him alone."

The kettle had boiled. He went over to fix his tea. "I can't do that, girl."

"Nicolette. My name is Nicky."

"Why are you so hung up on this, Nicky?"

"He's a good man."

"You hardly knew him."

He sat down and stirred. She just stood there.

"She must mean a lot to you."

He didn't respond.

"It's Michelle, right? The Australian. I read the file."

He glared at her.

"I'm going to bed."

The chair clattered as he rose to stand. He snatched the mug and headed for his room.

"Wait. Kirill. Please."

She was trying to say something but she couldn't.

"Spill it," he said bluntly.

Her mouth was wobbling a little. "Promise me you won't hurt him."

He frowned, then glared again. "You know where he is?"

"No."

She was biting her lip.

"Then what-"

"There was a place."

"What place?"

"A place he liked to go to sometimes. I don't know if he still uses it. I don't know how long you'd have to wait. But he'll go back to that place."

"Why?"

"Marie's grave is there. Not like they ever recovered her body. But it's there."

He frowned again. "Who?"

"His girlfriend."

He froze. Bourne had a _woman_? Since when? And how did she die?

"Where is it?" he asked curiously.

"India," she replied.

* * *

He'd been here before.

The air had been just as muggy. He'd been wearing the same pants. They had clung to his legs like they were clinging to him now. He had trailed Bourne down that road, before he'd shot him.

He crouched down and winced. There was a sore spot on his leg that hadn't gone away since the accident.

If it was a grave, it was the strangest grave he'd ever seen. It looked like a pile of ash. There wasn't a tombstone. Just a mark. On the dirt. And a single photo. Half buried.

He took the photo out of the dirt and fingering the edge of it. It hadn't been put there long. Someone must keep coming here, putting duplicates every so often when it got too wet or dirty.

Bourne looked young, much younger than Kirill had remembered when he had laid eyes on him in person. The woman had her arms around him. He was half turned, smiling. The sky was blue. They were both happy.

He realised what was wrong a few seconds too late. Like last time. By the time he'd laid hands on his gun, the other man had his against his head.

"Don't."

The nudge of the gun was cold, hard.

"Drop it."

Kirill reluctantly lowered his gun. It clattered when it reached the ground. Bourne kicked the Walter away.

"Move."

He reluctantly trudged forward.

There was a shack nearby. Bourne led him inside and slammed the door shut.

"If I wanted you dead you would be."

"Then why are you here."

There was a pause.

 _He was unsure._

"Why are you still following me?" Bourne said.

He paused. "CIA wants to bring you in."

"Why do they want me?"

"I don't know."

Bourne sighed. It was a tired, pitiful sigh. He stepped around to face him, his gun still pointed at him.

"Aren't you tired of taking orders?"

"You know how it is."

"I did."

A haunted expression came over Bourne's face. "Until Marie, I did."

His hand pressed firmly over the gun and his mouth drew back into a thin, hard line. "Until you shot her."

Kirill frowned. "I shot no one you know. And no woman."

"You killed her."

 _He must be delusional,_ Kirill thought. _A side effect from the pills, perhaps…_

"She was driving."

Bourne was sweating, blinking hard. His hands gripped the gun tightly now, so tight Kirill could see the white of his knuckles.

"She was driving instead of me. You were supposed to kill me, but you killed her instead. She drowned at the bottom of that river."

Kirill's mind flashed black.

 _Goa._

He was talking about Goa.

A woman.

Bourne's woman.

He thought he had seen a piece of corn coloured hair waving out from the rickety old jeep, but he had been so focused on putting together the Sauer and catching his target before he went over the bridge that he had brushed this from his mind.

 _She'd_ been in the driver's seat.

A rotten feeling started to overtake him. It spread, paralysing his muscles.

"I'm…I'm sorry."

To his amazement, Bourne lowered his gun.

Kirill gave out an inaudible breath. _I may actually get out of this alive._

Before he could register, Kirill felt a fist connect with his face. He bent over, dazed.

"You're _sorry_?"

Another punch, this time to the stomach. He fell onto the ground.

"I'm sorry but sorry is just not cutting it right now!"

Another punch, this time to the ribs.

"You killed the only person who ever meant something to me, who I can remember after all this shit was done to me!"

Punch.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Bourne yelled wildly, a feral look in his eyes. Tears were rolling down his face.

Another punch. A weak one.

"You killed the only person I ever loved…"

Bourne fell onto his knees, his voice trailing off into sobs. He put his head into his hands, his body shaking. And then he was weeping in earnest, huge, loud, terrible sobs that echoed around the corrugated iron walls.

Kirill was too stunned to move.

He'd never seen a grown man cry. It was a sight both raw and terrifying.

He was too tired to think. About the job, catching, killing…He sat up slowly, his body aching.

The animal had left him.

Kirill sat in its place.

He'd already killed this man's woman, and he was supposed to- what? Drag him in to Langley? Take away his life as well? The whole thing seemed ridiculous.

He was bleeding. The blood was dripping down his shirt. He dabbed it with his sleeve, as he watched the man who was supposed to be his enemy bare out his soul before him.

Finally Bourne was silent. Kirill scuffed his shoe against the ground. It kicked away a piece of rubble.

"You don't know how many times I visited the hospital, my gun in hand."

Kirill looked up. Bourne was looking at him, his eyes haunted.

"Why didn't you do it?"

Bourne looked at the dirt floor.

"You were the arm, not the brain."

"Did it matter? I still killed her."

Bourne's mouth grew tight.

"If I were you, I would have done it too."

Kirill felt a stab in his gut. It wrenched at him, and tore him apart. All of a sudden he felt a little sick.

He didn't know how long they sat there, in that dingy place, both with their knees curled up. He got up at some point, but Bourne did not even seem to notice.

"I am sorry."

Bourne looked up at him, his face wet with tears. This time his eyes held only sadness. He did not stop Kirill as he walked towards the door.

"Who sent you?"

Bourne's voice bounced off the tin roofing.

"A Pamela Landy."

A short pause.

"She's a good woman. I suppose she offered you protection?"

Kirill nodded.

"What about Michelle?"

He stopped abruptly. "How did you-"

"You kept mumbling her name in your sleep. At the hospital."

There was another pause.

"You should go to her."

Kirill stood, silent.

"She is better without me in her life," he finally said.

"That's what I thought too, with Marie."

Bourne was getting to his feet. He dusted off his pants. "But I couldn't let her go. I just couldn't."

"Why?" Kirill asked.

"Because she's the reason," Bourne said. "Don't lose your reason."

Kirill stood silently again. Then he looked up at Bourne, nodded, and kept walking.

When he reached the door, he stopped again.

"Will you- forgive me?"

The silence creaked through the air.

 _"_ _Da."_

Kirill looked at him and nodded once. Then he continued, limping out of the shack, past the grave, and down the dirt road.


	13. Home

Australia.

He was actually here.

It had been three years since the day he'd first met her. Three years since she'd changed his life forever.

He'd wondered if she'd met someone. She might even be married. The thought punched him in the gut harder than Bourne's fist. He wouldn't be surprised. She was an attractive, intelligent, bloody wonderful woman. She would have had no shortage of suitors.

But then again, he thought, maybe she had not.

He'd spent the first day recovering him the jet lag. Most of that time was spent in the hotel voraciously searching for snippets, anything new- on her, online. It was then he stumbled across the ad poster.

'Michelle - one of Sydney's most critically acclaimed piano soloists performs exclusively at City Recital Hall for a one night show, dedicated to her late mentor, -. Repertoire includes Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and Ravel. Bookings-'

He got a seat at the back in the large auditorium. He could not be seen from the front, but he had a perfect view. He took a seat in the semi darkness and waited.

And then she appeared.

Kirill thought his heart would stop. She looked radiant. The black ball gown she wore fit her perfectly, and her hair was swept up in an elegant mess of curls. She hadn't changed one bit. His eyes drank her in greedily, savouring the way she looked, the way she moved, the way she smiled.

The compere introduced her as she sat herself by the Steinway, giving a gracious nod towards him and a nervous smile to her audience.

The first piece was one he had heard before. It was one of the nights in the countryside. They were about to go out, and she was getting ready. It had been playing on her YouTube playlist from her laptop. He remembered. It was by Rachmaninoff, she had said, and it was one of her favourites. It was a sad song. She had told him how she had thought Rachmaninoff must have been a deeply lonely man. Constantly yearning for something.

As she played, he knew what she meant.

 _Deep passions under a stern exterior._

All his life he had kept his grip on his emotions. Now he knew just how much he had kept hidden, how his feelings swirled like an eddy underneath his skin. She had been the first to see through the cracks.

The realisation was like a dam breaking, surging forth.

He just stared as he watched her play, pressing the keys and moving her arms effortlessly as the music washed over him.

His soul was brimming over.

How she could be so incredible, he didn't know.

* * *

Michelle looked at the menu, and then darted her eyes across at the dark haired man wearing a plaid shirt sitting opposite her.

He looked up and quirked his lips into a gentle grin.

"Ready to order?"

She put on a smile. "Yes."

They gave their orders to the waitress. They chatted a bit, and then their food arrived. They chatted a bit more.

This isn't so bad, Michelle thought. He's okay looking. He eats decently. Nice manners. Seems to know where he's heading career wise. She kept spelling out in her mind the boxes he was ticking.

It was just too bad she felt no attraction to him at all.

Her smile started to wane.

He could probably sense her attention wondering, so he picked up the bill not long after and they headed out for the door.

"So, I'll call you?"

He sounded- hopeful. She didn't want to quash that hope.

She gave a lukewarm smile. "Sure."

"It was really nice meeting you."

"Likewise."

She headed up on George Street towards Circular Quay, and he headed the other direction, back to his office near Town Hall.

As she was walking her smile melted off her face and the corners of her lips sank right back down. Dammit, she thought. Shouldn't be giving mixed signals. Should have just been straight with him.

 _But he was okay_ , the other, more logical side of her brain argued. _I mean he wasn't a creep. Not like the last one._ Michelle remembered and rolled her eyes. The big, bullnecked IT guy who leered at her like she was a piece of cake and thought he was a big shot because he worked at PWC. _Yeah_ , she conceded. Next to that, this one seemed like a dream. _And who knew where that would lead?_ The little rational voice nudged. _Friendship can always lead to something more._

She sighed. She _really_ wasn't interested. She knew when she was. There was no zing, no heart racing…unlike when she'd met…

She had to bite her lip to stop crying.

 _He's not coming back._

She needed to get a grip. He could be dead. He could've been lying. He could've forgotten. Heaven forbid if he'd forgotten.

Life had gone on as per usual. The hotel had kept her things. Packed them in a smaller bag and shipped them. The fee had not been exhorbitant. They had been super-nice about the whole thing, and hadn't even charged her for not checking out when she had supposed to. She told her parents she had missed her flight due to a minor accident. It was no big drama. She flew back to Sydney. She went back to teach the next day.

One month passed, then two, then three. The anxiety had been excruciating. After six months she'd started crying her heart out every night. By a year, she'd stopped waiting.

Life had been good, if she'd done an honest assessment. She had had more opportunities to perform, and had even been able to go to the States to do a few concerts. It had been exciting. She had met people. She had some great opportunities coming up. She was doing the things she loved most in the world.

She'd dated. It wasn't that she hadn't tried. Well maybe, she hadn't tried hard enough. She'd met some really nice ones, but they just hadn't worked out.

 _And he was always at the back of her mind._ Always.

She stepped into a green newsstand, just before the statue of the little kid who she always mistook for a real person. All that time in the café and she didn't even order water. She needed a drink.

"A bottle of water please," she said to the lady. She fished out the change in her wallet.

"The date did not go so well."

Michelle froze.

When she finally willed herself to look up, slowly, the blood rushed from her face.

He was here.

 _Kirill._

He was leaning nonchalantly against the curve of the stall, arms folded casually. He had on a pair of sunglasses, and his stubble had grown out again. A loose, yellow beige coloured shirt hung around his upper frame, and black pants hugged his legs. He'd lost weight.

He took off the glasses, and Michelle could feel her breath hitch at seeing those hazel eyes again. He looked tired, but well enough.

They stood in silence.

"You shouldn't be here, Kirill," she finally said.

He looked up at the buildings around Martin Place.

"It is beautiful here."

"Yes, it is."

She said this a tad impatiently.

"The air is…cleaner."

Michelle was pursing her lips now. _What sort of game was he playing at?_

" _What happened?"_ she asked, her voice almost cracking. Tears formed as her hands curled themselves into little balls.

His arms were around her. She felt herself sobbing relentlessly. All she could smell was him, his aftershave, his scent, Kirill. He held her, his voice soothing, his arms stroking her back.

When they drew apart he produced a few tissues, and she blew her nose noisily. He was looking at her anxiously.

"I'm sorry," he said. "There were many things I had to take care of."

"I'll say," she said, sniffling.

"This is not the time or place for me to tell you."

"I guessed you would say that."

She dabbed the tissues at the corners of her eyes. "How long are you here?"

His eyes looked hopeful. "I'm not sure," he said slowly.

"Do you have a place to stay?"

"I'm staying at a hotel."

"Well you can't stay there forever. Come to my place."

"Are you-sure?" he said, hesitantly.

"It has three bedrooms, and I only use one," she said matter of factly. "I have a spare bed."

"Alright," he said, trying not to sound disappointed.

It didn't take him long to pack. There wasn't much he'd taken with him, the vestiges of his meagre life in Russia fitting into one neat suitcase. They took the train back to her place in Petersham.

She unlocked the door and they came inside. It was homey, with candles and comfortable rugs everywhere. Wooden furniture.

It looked like her. It looked like home.

"I'll get you some tea," she said. "The spare room is through here." She pointed into a room with a double bed set up on a simple wooden frame. A sky blue coverlet lay on the top. Books were stacked neatly on the desk, and a single lamp sat on the bed stand. Obviously she never used this room.

He dumped down his stuff while she went to the kitchen.

They sat opposite each other on the small dining table. She was watching him worriedly, waiting for him to speak.

"You don't have- someone?" he asked carefully, his eyes watching his cup and his fingers circling its circumference.

She snorted. "I would have thought that was obvious, considering the not so successful date."

He looked up. She sounded bitter, humourless. It wasn't like her.

"Tell me the truth, Kirill."

He owed her the truth.

"I joined the police force when I was eighteen," he began. "I did not stay there for long. I got involved in a Communist group. One protest got ugly. I shot a man by accident, killed him. I ran away."

He clasped his hands around the mug. "KGB approached me. I had no place else to go. They offered me immunity. If I declined the offer, I would be charged with murder. I would go to prison. I joined."

He looked straight at her. "I'm not a good person. I've killed men. I've done things- I would not be proud to mention. Especially to you."

Her face was unreadable. "What happened this time?"

"I was tasked to frame a man for the murder of two CIA agents. Then, I was to kill the man. Jason Bourne."

He paused.

"But I shot someone else."

She paused, then half laughed. "Don't you shoot people all the time?"

"I shot a woman. Killed her."

There was something about his voice. He sounded…guilty.

"His woman."

"How?"

He looked lost, rethinking the moment. "She was driving- she switched places with him. I did not know she existed."

Michelle looked at him closely. He seemed so cut up about this, about this particular kill.

"Why is this different?" she asked.

Kirill stared at her, his eyes boring into her's. "What if someone had shot you?"

"I don't know, Kirill," she said softly. "What if someone had?"

Kirill paused. He could not keep the emotion in him anymore.

"My whole life," he said, his voice shaking, "has not been worth much. Except for when I was with you. You made all the difference."

A tear crept from the corner of one eye. "Why that much, Kirill?"

"You're my reason," he said simply. "You're my something good."

He didn't see her coming. All of a sudden he found himself on his back, on the fluffy rug that stretched out across the kitchen and dining. She had her arms around him.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered.

"Not if it kills me," he whispered back.

Their lips found each other, and he fell into the kiss.

A few hours later they were on still on the rug. Michelle had pulled a blanket over them after they'd made love. They lay under it, their arms around one another, his hand touching her face.

"What are you planning to do now, officer?" she asked, her eyes alight with happiness.

He smiled, fingering her nose. "I'm not sure. I can be your bodyguard."

"Mm," she said as she kissed his chin. "That sounds agreeable. So you'll always have to stay really, really close to me."

He rolled atop of her as she squeaked. " _Da,"_ he said huskily.

"And when we're done doing that," he said, kissing her, "we could retire. I could build a house, and we could have a few children, who will grow up to be amazing concert pianists. Like their mother."

"Or amazing cooks, like their father," she murmured against his lips.

 _"_ _Da_ ," he said.

He knew everything was going to be alright now. He was home.


End file.
